Few   Critical   Opinions 

Personal  and  Journalistic,  American  and  Ger 
man,  on  the  Poetical  Work  of 


\JTeorge   oylvester   V  iereck 

Whose  Complete  Poems,  including  those  originally 
written  in  German,  are  now  published  under  the 
title  of 

NINEVEH 

C&   Other  Poems 

The  Englishing,  for  this  volume,  of  the  German 
Poems  which  brought  him  his  original  world-wide 
celebrity  was  done  personally  by  the  poet. 


12mo,  $1.20  net.     (Postage,  10  cents) 
cTWOFFAT,    YARD   ft,  COMPANY,    NEW  YORK 


GEORGE  SYLVESTERj,  VIERECK 


GEORGE    SYLVESTER    VIERECK    was    born    in 
Munich,    December    31,    1884.      His    father,    Louis 
Viereck,  for  years  a  prominent  member  of  the  Ger 
man  Reichstag,  came  to  America  about  ten  years  ago  as 
the  New  York  correspondent  of  a  Berlin  newspaper,  and 
is  now  the  publisher  of  a  New  York  German  monthly,  "Der 
Deutsche    Vorkampfer."     His    mother,    Laura    Viereck,  is 
a  native  of  California  and  her  husband's  first  cousin. 

Coming  to  America  at  the  age  of  twelve,  Viereck  at 
tended  the  New  York  public  schools  and  graduated,  in 
1906,  from  the  College  of  the  City  of  New  York.  In  July 
following  he  joined  the  staff  of  "Current  Literature,"  under 
Edward  Jewitt  Wheeler,  and  is  now  associate  editor,  con 
ducting  the  dramatic  department. 

He  began  to  write  for  newspapers  in  German  at  the 
age  of  thirteen,  and  has  contributed  a  great  deal  of  prose, 
verse  and  fiction  to  the  New  York  "Staats  Zeitung,"  as  well 
as  to  the  Berlin  papers.  He  continued  writing  in  German 
until  three  years  ago,  when  he  definitely  adopted  the  Eng 
lish  language.  He  collected  his  German  poems  in  1904 
and  published  them  under  the  title  of  "Gedichte."  The 
edition  was  a  very  small  one  and  had  little  sale,  but  it  in 
stantly  made  him  celebrated.  His  genius  was  recognized 
at  once  throughout  Germany,  and,  to  a  less  extent,  Amer 
ica,  and  he  became  the  subject  of  many  articles  in  reviews 
and  critical  journals  on  both  sides  of  the  sea.  He  began 
to  receive  personal  letters  from  men  of  celebrity,  finding 
himself,  within  a  few  months  after  the  book's  publication, 
in  correspondence  with  a  growing  circle  of  rare  minds. 
Some  idea  cf  the  reception  given  this  little  book  may  be 
had  from  a  perusal  cf  the  brief  extracts,  here  given,  from 
a  few  of  the  countless  criticisms  and  appreciations  which 
it  provoked. 

Within  a  few  months  after  the  book's  publication,  the 
celebrated  house  of  Cotta,  at  Stuttgart,  the  publishers  of 
Goethe  and  Schiller,  expressed  an  interest  in  the  young 
pcet.  and  Lrdwig  Fukh  tork  the  manuscript  to  Germany 
to  show  it  to  them,  the  result  being  their  publication  of 
a  larger  work,  made  up  of  the  original  book  with  many 
newer  poems.  This  appeared  at  the  end  of  1906,  under 
the  title  of  "Niniveh  und  Andere  Gedichte,"  Moffat,  Yard 
&  Company,  of  New  York,  at  the  same  time  having  in 
preparation  the  English  edition,  with  the  further  addition 
of  poems  written  originally  in  English  for  American 
magazines.  The  first  American  magazine,  by  the  way, 
to  publish  a  poem  by  Mr.  Viereck  was  the  "Century." 

In  the  autumn  of  1906,  Mr.  Viereck  published  a  small 
volume  of  plays  entitled,  "A  Game  at  Love,"  and  there 
will  appear,  in  the  late  autumn,  a  psychological  romance 
of  a  very  unusual  kind  and  quality.  All  his  books  will  be 
published  simultaneously  in  English  and  German. 


PERSONAL        OPINION 

Ludwig  Fulda — 

"A  strong  and  original  talent." 
Professor  Calvin  Thomas,  of  Columbia  University — 

"A  most  unusual  phenomenon." 

Richard    Le     Gallienne    in     The    North    American 

Review — 

"Indeed  a  poet  .  .  .  An  original  mind  and  an 
exceptionally  forcible  and  magnetic  literary  gift." 

James  Huneker  in  The  North  American  Review — 

"Among  the  late  comers  to  our  Parnassus  we  have 
William  Vaughn  Moody  .  .  .  and  there  is  that 
youthful  prodigy,  George  Sylvester  Viereck,  the  bi 
lingual  poet,  whose  imaginative  verse  is  shot  through 
with  splendors  of  Heine,  Swinburne  and  Keats." 

Professor  W.  P.  Trent,  of  Columbia  University  (from 

a  personal  letter} — • 

"You  seem  to  me  to  have  the  qualities  of  the  true 
singing  lyrist,  and  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  sing  de 
spite  the  fact  that  nowadays  poetry  is,  in  the  main,  its 
own  reward." 

Dr.  J.  Fastenrath,  Founder  of  the  Cologne  Flower  Fes 
tivals,  in  the  Koelner  Tageblatt — 
"His  poems  are  bathed  in  music.    They  are  as  an 
echo  from  the  Horsel.     If  Tannhauser  should  again 
raise  his  voice,  or  if  the  legendary  Heinrich  of  Ofter- 
dingen  could  arise  to  take  his  part  once  more  in  the 
minstrel   strife   at  the  Wartburg,   he  might    sing    as 
Viereck.    He  is  the  German-American  Catullus." 

Professor  Hugo  Munsterberg,  of  Harvard   University 

(from  a  personal  letter) — 

"Your  book  of  poems  arouses  the  liveliest  hopes. 
Many  things  in  it  are  of  a  deep,  pure  melodic  beauty." 

E.  J.  Wheeler  in  Current  Literature — 

"Some  of  his  verses  make  one  catch  the  breath 
with  their  audacity  and  unrestraint.  But  the  genius 
of  the  writer  is  never  in  doubt.  There  is  the  sound  of 
rushing  torrents  rather  than  of  trickling  rivulets  in 
these  pages,  and  one  hears,  with  Herod  in  Wilde's 
'Salome/  the  beating  of  mighty  and  mysterious 
pinions  in  the  air." 


PERSONAL        OPINION 

Dr.  W.  E.  Leonard,  in  the  Boston  Transcript — 

"In  maturity  of  art  I  know  not  where  to  find  his 
parallel  in  English  letters,  unless  in  the  Rowley  poems 
of  the  marvelous  boy  who  perished  in  his  pride.  .  .  . 
1  am  aware  that  any  comparison  of  an  obscure  New 
York  school-boy  with  Goethe  and  Byron  must  strike 
the  reader  unpleasantly,  but  the  critical  conscience 
should  not  wince  at  that.  .  .  .  On  one  reading  you 
pronounce  him  a  decadent.  But  if  you  read  him  again 
you  must  admit  noble  elements  of  thought  and  strength 
and  pathos." 

Dr.    A.    Pulvermacher,   in    the   New    Yorker   Stoats 

Zeitung — 

"In  Viereck's  case  the  phenomenal  happened  that 
he  felt  his  own  wings  grow  while  still  a  school  boy,  and 
even  at  that  time  gave  us  poems  which,  though  remin 
iscent  of  Heine  and  Swinburne  and  the  Pre-Raphaelites, 
were  bold  and  brilliant  manifestations  of  an  elemental 
talent  that  already  possessed  an  individuality  of  its 
o\vn.  .  .  .  They  are  now  bound  in  a  wreath  of 
strong  exotic  perfume  .  .  .  glowing  colors 
.  .  perfection  in  form  .  .  .  enchanting  music. 
The  three  strongly  original  poems  dedicated  to  the 
great  city  of  New  York  are  documentary  evidence  that 
he  has  taken  root  upon  the  soil  of  the  New  World 
and  feels  himself  one  with  the  city  that  has  become  his 
home." 

Professor  Ernst  Henrici,  in  the  Leipziger  Tageblatt — 
"The  name  of  Cotta,  Yiereck's  German  publisher, 
is  closely  associated  with  those  of  Goethe  and  Schiller. 
Yiereck  is  a  child  in  appearance,  a  wearied  man  in 
thought,  a  true  artist  in  creative  ability.  His  poetry 
is  universally  human,  if  this  term  may  be  applied  with 
propriety  to  the  deeply  morbid  tendencies  that  at  pres 
ent  holds  sway  over  the  Aryan  races.  And  in  spite  of 
all  that  is  morbid  we  find  in  these  poems  a  blossoming 
and  a  perfect  artistry  of  irresistible  fascination.  George 
Sylvester  Yiereck  is  a  riddle,  a  riddle  even  to  himself. 
Therefore,  the  symbol  of  the  Egyptian  Sphinx  reoc 
curs  again  and  again  in  his  poems.  What  he  brings  us. 
in  gorgeous  raiment  and  with  supreme  mastery  of 
form,  is  largely  symbolism  that  admits  of  a  variety  of 
interpretation.  .  .  .  Viereck's  poems  are  master 
pieces.  They  are  masterpieces  evincing  bewitching 


PERSONAL        OPINION 

powers  of  presentation,  products  of  a  Titanic  inner  fer 
mentation,  a  world-encircling  flight  of  thought 
.  .  .  Viereck  speaks  of  human  sin  and  sorrow  in 
terms  of  the  first  person  because  he  is  a  lyrist.  In 
reality  he  means  Man." 

A.  von  Ende,  in  Poet  Lore— 

"George  Sylvester  Viereck  is  a  phenomenon  for 
which  there  is  no  parallel  in  the  history  of  the  world's 
literature.  By  rare  circumstance  and  training  he  struck 
out  into  paths  unknown  to  his  fellow  poets  in  this 
country;  neither  has  he  much  in  common  with  young 
est  Germany  abroad  .  .  .  Experience  has  had  some 
share  in  shaping  the  elusive,  puzzling  individuality  of 
this  boy  of  twenty.  Viereck's  field  of  vision  is  nar 
row,  but  it  has  depth.  Of  the  two  forces  that  govern 
the  world,  hunger  and  love,  he  acknowledges  only  the 
latter.  His  conception  of  love  is  philosophical  and 
intensely  human.  As  in  series  of  historical  frescoes  he 
unfolds  in  'Aiogyne'  the  love  of  the  Eternal  Woman; 
every  stanza  is  a  perfect  picture.  The  exotic  exuber 
ance  of  his  imagination  frequently  bewilders,  but  never 
repels.  There  is  historic  versimilitude,  there  is  con- 
creteness  in  his  imagery,  but  there  is  nothing  forced  or 
ponderous ;  he  has  the  light  touch  of  the  true  artist." 


AMERICAN    PRESS    OPINION 

The  Dial — 

"His  work  is  certainly  remarkable,  and  we  have 
read  with  interest  every  line  in  the  book.  It  has 
color,  passion,  music  and  imagination." 

Charleston  Netvs  and  Courier — 

"These  poems  belong  to  the  most  unique  products 
of  latter-day  poetry.  .  .  .  They  are  at  once  sub 
tle  and  passionate.  Mr.  Viereck  has  probed  the  depths 
of  life  in  some  of  its  phases." 

New  York  Evening  Post — 

"For  originality  of  conception  and  artistic  distinc 
tion,  the  work  of  George  Sylvester  Viereck  deserves 
special  attention.  .  .  .  Remarkable  for  melody, 
imagery,  eloquence  and  paganistic  spirit." 


cAMERICAN    PRESS    OPINION 

Chicago  Examiner — 

"Since  the  marvelous  Chatterton,  it  is  doubtful 
if  there  has  appeared  so  mature  a  mind  in  so  young  a 
body  as  is  displayed  in  the  genius  of  Sylvester  Vie- 
reck." 

New  Yorker  Echo — 

"Nineveh,  a  symbolization  of  Manhattan  in  apo 
calyptic  symbols,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
most  characteristic  poems  in  the  whole  collection. 
Viereck  sees  even  such  unpoetic  things  as  skyscrapers, 
subways  and  the  elevated  trains  with  the  painter's  eye 
and  imprisons  them  with  the  poet's  pen." 

Washington  Post — 

"These  are  the  poems  of  a  young  German  who  is 
attracting  attention  by  his  work  both  in  his  native  and 
adopted  languages,  for  the  author  is  now  a  citizen  of 
the  United  States.  The  young  poet  undoubtedly  man 
ifests  evidence  of  genius.  If  he  does  not  suffer  him 
self  to  be  absorbed  by  the  tide  of  erotic  fancy  that 
sweeps  over  his  composition  and  trenches  hard  upon 
a  form  of  neurotic  mania,  he  will  probably  be  heard 
from  among  the  standards  some  day.  Of  late  Mr. 
Viereck  has'  been  writing  English  verse  which  denotes 
much  of  the  grace  and  rich  fancy  of  his  German  lines." 

Sonntagsblatt  der  New  Yorker  Staats  Zeitung — 

"Great  is  the  suggestive  power  of  the  poems  of 
this  youth  of  hardly  twentv  years.  He  is  on  his  way  to 
develop  into  a  remarkable  poetic  individuality.  His 
strength  still  lies  in  erotic  poetry.  A  strikingly  original 
poem  of  this  kind  is  'Aiogyne.'  He  touches  in  it  on 
various  erotic  problems  with  delicate,  artistic  discre 
tion,  and  without  any  prudishness.  In  atmosphere 
'Liebesnacht'  ranks  even  above  'Aiogvne.'  This  poem 
burns  with  a  true  Hellenic  joy  in  the  body.  A  dithy 
ramb  on  the  flesh  it  is,  in  which  hate  and  love,  twin- 
brethren,  race  in  a  mad  orgy." 


GERMAN     PRESS     OPINION 

National  Zeitung  (Berlin}  — 

"This  is,  indeed,  true  poetry.  And  one  who,  at 
age  of  twenty  is  able  to  combine  such  depth  of  feeling 
with  such  perfection  of  form,  has  surely  been  given 
the  singing  mouth." 

Hamburger  Nachrichten — • 

"A  remarkable  achievement  that  represents,  in 
German  poetry  at  least,  a  new  departure.  There  is  in 
this  book  the  rising  of  spring  juices.  It  surprises  at 
times  by  far-looking  imagination  and  poignancy  of 
expression." 

Berliner  Neuste  "Nachrichten — 

"We  mark  the  growth  of  a  poet.  His  throbbing 
passion  will  become  a  well-watched  flame.  His  ardent 
thoughts  will  no  longer  be  satisfied  with  the  physical 
beauty  of  women,  but  also  desire  the  soul.  .  .  . 
In  George  Sylvester  Viereck  there  is  a  seeker  after 
God  intoxicated  with  the  cosmos.  He  perceives  the 
undissolved  residue  in  life  and  strives  toward  clearer 
heights.  There  is  human  and  aesthetic  yearning  in  his 
pcems  that  compels  attention." 

Literarisches  Centralblatt  fur  Deutschland  (Leipzic) — 
"Beauty  in  art  and  life,  the  joy  of  the  senses,  the 
glowing  intoxication  of  youth — of  all  these  he  sings. 
To  understand  him  one  must  read  'Aiogyne,'  a  com 
position  equally  perfect  in  form  and  content.  Here  the 
poet's  individuality  and  originality  stand  supremely 
revealed.  True  passion,  profound  emotion  distinguish 
his  other  poems  as  well.  Heine's  love  songs  and  Shel 
ley's  poems  reoccur  to  one  on  reading  Viereck,  who 
is  a  kindred  spirit  to  both.  But  he  always  retains  his 
individuality." 

Allgememe  Zeitung  (Munich} — 

"Viereck's  book  is  a  phenomenal  and  at  the  same 
time  characteristic  document  of  a  youth.  Exceptional 
circumstances  and  educational  possibilities  have  ena- 
abled  this  young  aufhor  to  seek  a  road  far  from  the 
common  herd,  not  only  from  that  of  America,  but  of 
younger  Germany  also,  with  which  indeed  he  has  lit 
tle  in  common.  This  son  of  an  American  mother  and 
a  father  of  German  blood  is  an  admirer  of  Swinburne 
and  Wilde.  With  the  former  he  has  in  common  the 
passionate  gift  of  feeling  and  expression ;  with  the  lat- 


GERMAN     PRESS     OPINION 

ter  he  shares  a  sophisticated  aesthetic  instinct,  unfailing 
sense  of  form,  and  an  acute  critical  power.  The  flow  of 
his  verses  is  wonderfully  melodious.  The  charm  of  his 
poetry  consists  in  the  complete  welding  of  substance 
and  form.  This  makes  him  a  true  artist.  What  gives 
his  muse  physiognomy  is  his  mental  outlook.  His  field 
is  narrow  but  it  has  depths." 

Freie  Presse  (Vienna} — 

"There  is  an  uncanny  maturity  in  the  poems  of 
this  boy  of  twenty-two.  Upon  every  page  an  extraor 
dinary  talent  reveals  itself.  .  .  .  With  very  min 
gled  emotions  and  impressions  the  reader  wanders 
through  the  collection  as  through  some  tropic  wilder 
ness  where  luxuriant  poison-scented  forests  and  secret 
glens  full  of  primeval  quiet  succeed  each  other. 
Classic  antiquity  and  Christian  legend,  Egyptian  mys 
ticism,  and  modern  blasphemy,  an  intoxicated  sense  of 
beauty  and  infinite  exaltation  commingle. 
If  this  exotic  composition  is  characteristic  of  the  de 
velopment  of  'Young  America,'  Viereck's  poetry  has  a 
value  beyond  its  intrinsic  poetic  character  for  the  lit 
erary  historian.  But  in  itself  it  possesses  a  weird  at 
traction.  It  is — if  we  may  speak  in  this  connection  of 
dimension  of  space — in  a  sense  a  picture  of  the  im 
mense,  not  always  pleasing,  dimensions  which  lend  a 
characteristic  and  peculiar  flavor  to  all  expressions  of 
American  life." 

Vossische  Zeitung  (Berlin} — 

"Viereck  himself  is,  in  a  measure,  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  modern  movement  in  English  literature, 
so  that  he  may  be  called  a  member  of  the  English  Neo- 
Romantic  school  who  uses  the  German  language. 
Strangely  mature  experience,  an  ecstatic  intoxication 
with  life,  ineffable  yearning  after  beauty,  delight  in  the 
Greek  ideals  of  art,  an  orgy  of  soul  and  sense  that 
passes  from  the  complete  expression  of  every  instinct 
of  the  flesh  to  the  devotional  remorse  and  despair,  mys 
ticism  and  satanism,  undue  verbosity  at  times,  and  a 
coquetting  with  secrets  and  mystery — these  are,  for 
good  for  evil,  the  characteristics  of  Viereck's  muse, 
as  they  are  that  of  his  English  predecessors.  In  com 
mon  with  these,  too,  he  possesses  splendour  of  language 
and  astonishing  dexterity  in  the  management  of  rhyme 
and  rhythm." 


16149 


NINE 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS 


NINEVEH 

AND 

OTHER 
POEMS 


NEW  YORK 

.MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 
1907 


Copyright,  1907.  by 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


First  Printing,  April,  1907 
Second  Printing,  July,  1907 


To 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


NOTE 

The  author  desires  to  express  his  obligation 
to  his  friends,  Mr.  William  Ellery  Leonard  and 
Mr.  Ludwig  Lewisohn,  for  their  permission  to 
reprint  in  the  present  collection  their  respective 
versions  of  '  'Prince  Carnival ' '  and  ' '  The  Scar 
let  Flower."  Nor  can  he  send  forth  this  book 
without  a  word  of  gratitude  to  his  other  friends , 
especially  Mrs.  Elsa  Barker,  Mr.  A.  I.  du  P. 
Coleman  and  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne  ,for  Jielp- 
ful  suggestion  and  generous  assistance. 


CONTENTS 


SALUTATION 

THE  SUPPLIANT  ....           3 

PRAYER                   .  .           .           .            .4 

PREMONITION      .  .           .           .           5 


NINEVEH 

« 
THE  EMPIRE  CITY  .  ..          w  .11 

NINEVEH  .  .  .  .  .         15 


THE  BOOK  OF  IDOLS 

To  *  *  *  33 

THE  DUMB  IDOL          ....  34 

KAKODAIMON          .            .            .            .  .38 

PRINCE  CARNIVAL         .            .            .           ,  40 

THE  SMILE  OF  THE  SPHINX         .            .  .42 

WHEN  IDOLS  FALL      ....  47 

THE  SPHINX          .            .           .           .*  .    50 


A  BALLAD  OF  SIN          .          .          .          .57 


CONTENTS 


GOLGOTHA 


CONFESSION          .  .  .  .  .65 

PROVOCATIO  AD  MAKIAM          ...         67 
BEFORE  THE  CROSS  .  .  .  .69 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PASSION 

SPRING                                                            .  73 

A  SPRING  BLESSING          .           .           .  .75 

LOVE'S  SILENCE            ....  78 

REDEEMED               .            .            .            .  -79 

LOVE  TRIUMPHANT      .  .  .  .81 

SUNSET         .                    .           .           .  .84 

THE  SCARLET  FLOWER             ...            .  85 

MR.  W.  H.            .           .           .           .  .87 

FOR  ANTINOUS  IN  His  OLD  AGE         .           .  88 

To    SLEEP              .            .            .           .  .89 

PRAYER  OF  SOULS  IN  NEED    .           .           .  90 

RESURRECTION                    .            .            .  .    91 

THE  BALLAD  OF  NUN  AND  KNIGHT    .            .  92 

LOVE  IN  DREAMLAND         .            .            .  -94 

FRIENDSHIP                  ....  96 

WASTED  SONGS      .           .           .           .  -97 

LORD  EROS          .  .  .  .98 

AT  CROSS-ROADS               .           .           .  -99 

AUTUMN           .....  100 

LOVE  CRUEL  .....  102 

SlLENTIUM    POET^E  ....  IO3 

THE  LAST  CHORD  .  .  .  .104 

A  LEAVE  TAKING         .  .  .  .105 


XI 


SOUTHERN  SUMMER          ....  106 

LOVE'S  QUEST      .        .           .           .           .  107 

IN  THE  AGORA 

To  A  DEFEATED  CANDIDATE           .            .  .  in 

HEINE  IN  NKW  YORK  .            .            .           .  112 

THE  NEW  COLOSSUS  IN  1907        .            .  .  113 

MALE  AND  FEMALE  CREATED  HE 
THEM 

AlOGYNE                 .....  117 

AlANDER                        .                 .                ..               .  .    121 

THE  MAGIC  CITY 

A  POET'S  CREED           ....  127 

To  SWINBURNE  ....  128 

CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE              .           .           .  129 

THE  POET              .            .           .           .  .131 

CONSOLATION                 .            .                       .  132 

HADRIAN                .            .           .            .  .  133 

ART          ...  .  .  .137 

THE  MAGIC  CITY              .           .           .  .142 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE      .          .           .  149 

THE  THREE  SPHINXES  .  153 


PREFACE 

THE  splendid  heritage  of  two  languages  has 
fallen  to  me  from  a  German  father  and  an 
American  mother.  My  ears  have  listened  to  the 
music  of  two  worlds.  Many  of  the  poems  in 
the  present  collection  were  written  in  the  lan 
guage  in  which  they  are  here  presented.  Oth 
ers  were  originally  composed  in  German  and 
rewritten  in  English.  The  latter  are  as  metals 
transmuted  by  verbal  alchemy  and,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  two,  in  no  sense  translations.  I  can 
not,  therefore,  claim,  for  any  part  of  my  work, 
the  indulgence  commonly  granted  to  painstak 
ing  translators  by  benevolent  critics.  Each  of 
my  poems  must  be  judged  by  whatever  intrinsic 
value  it  may  possess.  It  must  also  be  judged  as 
a  whole.  It  must  not  be  viewed  from  one  nar 
row  angle  of  vision — moral,  aesthetic,  or  philo 
sophic.  The  truth,  I  take  it,  has  many  sides. 
Art,  like  life,  is  Janus-faced.  In  fact,  it  has 
many  faces.  The  hopelessly  Puritanical  attitude 
which  has  found  its  most  characteristic  utterance, 
xiii 


xiv  PREFACE 

and — it  was  to  be  hoped — its  extinction,  in  the 
pitiful  voice  of  Robert  Buchanan,  is  no  more 
absurd  than  the  affectation  of  those  who,  pro 
claiming  their  discipleship  to  art  for  art's  sake, 
in  reality  crown  pose  with  the  diadem  of  emo 
tion,  and  upon  the  throne  of  beauty  set  technique. 
The  question  arises:  Is  there  any  positive  test 
of  literary  achievement?  Matthew  Arnold's 
definitions,  set  forth  in  his  introduction  to 
Ward's  "English  Poets,"  are  suggestive,  if  un 
satisfactory.  In  every  poet's  work  we  discover 
single  poems,  which,  by  common  consent,  out 
shine  their  companions  without  necessarily  ex 
celling  in  earnestness  of  purpose  or  verbal 
beauty,  rhythmic  splendour  or  originality  of  con 
ception.  They  throb  with  a  mysterious  vitality 
which,  while  it  may  elude  definition,  is  unmis 
takably  felt.  Arnold's  "touch-stones"  of  poetry 
fall  under  this  category;  likewise  Leigh  Hunt's 
"Jenny  Kissed  Me,"  Rossetti's  "Blessed  Damo- 
zel,"  Markham's  "Man  with  the  Hoe,"  Poe's 
"Raven,"  and  Oscar  Wilde's  "Ballad  of  Read 
ing  Gaol."  I  have  purposely  chosen  dissimilar 
examples.  The  pieces  have,  however,  one  qual 
ity  in  common,  which,  for  lack  of  a  better  name, 
I  should  like  to  term  finality  of  expression.  That 
is,  they  solve  without  a  remainder  the  equation 
between  thought  and  utterance.  They  express, 


PREFACE  xv 

with  supreme  aptitude,  finally  and  for  all  time, 
some  mundane  experience,  some  note  in  the  in 
finite  scale.  No  latter  poet  can  add  to  them,  or 
detract.  Their  impressiveness  is  enduring,  their 
vitality  ultimate.  The  measure  of  a  poet's  art 
is  the  frequency  with  which  he  attains  or,  at 
least,  approaches  finality  of  expression. 

Form  and  content  in  poetry  are  co-ordinate. 
In  order  to  achieve  finality  it  is  essential  that 
the  metric  coat  shall  fit  exactly.  Existing  conven 
tional  forms,  like  ready-made  garments,  may  at 
times  fulfil  the  requirements;  frequently  they 
will  not.  It  then  behooves  a  poet  to  modify 
them  or,  better  still,  to  create  new  forms  inti 
mately  adapted  to  the  exigencies  of  the  occasion. 
Though  the  instinctive  sureness  of  Milton's 
touch  enabled  him  to  set  aside  traditional  restric 
tions,  the  eighteenth  century  crushed  freedom 
within  form  so  effectually  that,  in  spite  of  the 
romantic  revival,  our  poets  have  not,  as  a  rule, 
followed  in  his  steps.  Thought  is  now  stretched 
out,  now  mangled  upon  the  Procrustean  bed  of 
conventional  music.  Men  have  forgotten  that 
rhyme  and  metre-  are  only  means  to  an  end.  In 
art,  at  least,  the  end  justifies  the  means.  The 
poet's  ear,  not  the  number  of  feet,  is  the  pleni- 
potent  arbiter  of  form,  and  the  melodious  im 
pressiveness  of  a  poem  as  a  whole,  the  final  cri- 


xvl  PREFACE 

terion  of  poetic  technique.  The  poet  of  the  future 
will  be  an  impressionist.  By  unheard-of  devices 
he  will  wrest  new  music  from  the  language,  and 
raise  a  crop  of  roses  from  gardens  hitherto  neg 
lected  and  sterile.  He  will  also  utilise,  not  re 
pudiate,  the  resources  already  at  hand,  and  put 
to  a  nobler  and  broader  application  the  sonant 
heirloom  of  the  past.  It  is  the  freedom  of  Pindar 
for  which  I  plead,  not  the  freedom  of  Whitman. 
I  plead  for  this  freedom,  not  only  in  the  ode,  but 
in  all  poetry.  Thus  form  will  not  be  overthrown, 
but  more  firmly  and  exquisitely  established.  Not 
the  line  or  stanza,  but  the  whole  poem  will  be 
the  unit  of  the  new  poetry,  and  each  poem  will 
possess  a  rhythmic  individuality  unique  to  itself. 
In  the  majority  of  my  own  poems  I  made  con 
cession  to  time-honoured  canons.  Then,  instinc 
tively,  at  first,  I  began  to  strive  for  a  rhythmic 
speech  more  flexible,  and,  if  possible,  more  mu 
sical.  In  "A  Ballad  of  Sin"  and  "The  Smile  of 
the  Sphinx"  I  was  groping  for  the  new  form. 
In  "Kakodaimon"  I  came  nearer  to  it,  and  in 
"A  Spring  Blessing,"  "Art,"  "The  Magic  City" 
and  "The  Three  Sphinxes"  my  efforts  are  most 
consciously  directed  and  most  fully  developed.  If 
I  am  right,  I  have  extended  the  borderland  of 
poetry  into  the  domain  of  music  on  the  one  side, 
into  that  of  the  intellect  on  the  other.  The  new 


PREFACE 


XVll. 


form,  new  in  that  it  has  never  before  been  con 
sciously  applied,  brings  into  play  hidden  possi 
bilities  of  speech,  and  enables  the  authentic  poet 
to  multiply  rhymes  and  rhythmic  effects  without 
straining  the  sense.  The  lyre,  henceforth  obey 
ing  only  a  master-hand,  will  slip  from  the  grasp 
of  the  tyro,  and  poetry  become  once  more  the 
vehicle  of  great  thought.  The  lyrist  who  fully 
adopts  the  new  form  and  its  practically  limitless 
resources  will  accomplish  for  poetry  what  Wag 
ner  has  accomplished  for  music.  Along  the  lines 
here  indicated  lies  the  poetry  of  to-morrow. 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK. 


SALUTATION 


THE  SUPPLIANT 

Beyond  the  sea  a  land  of  heroes  lies, 

Of  fairy  heaths  and  rivers,  mountains  steep, 
O'ergrown  with  vine — her  memory  I  shall 
keep 

Most  dear,  her  heritage  most  dearly  prize. 

But  lo,  a  lad,  I  left  her,  and  mine  eyes 
Fell  on  the  sea-girt  mistress  of  the  deep, 
What  time  my  boy's  heart  heard  as  in  a  sleep 

The  choral  walls  of  rhythmic  beauty  rise. 

O  lyric  England,  thee  I  call  mine  own; 

With  lyre  and  lute  and  wreath  I  come  to 

thee; 

The  realm  is  thine  of  song  and  of  the  sea, 
And  thy  mouth's  speech  is  heard  from  zone  to 

zone: 

Turn  not  in  scorn  thine  ivied  brow  from  me, 
Who  am  a  suppliant  kneeling  at  thy  throne! 


PRAYER 

/  stood  upon  the  threshold;  musical 

Reverberant   footsteps   ghostlike   came  and 

went, 
And  my  lips  trembled  as  magnificent 

Before  me  rose  a  vision  of  that  hall 

Whereof  great  Milton  is  the  mighty  wall, 
Shakespeare  the  dome  with  incense  redolent, 
Each  latter  singer  precious  ornament, 

And  Holy  Writ  the  groundwork,  bearing  all. 

"Lord,"  sobbed  I,  "take  Thy  splendid  gift  of 

youth 

For  the  one  boon  that  I  have  craved  so  long: 
Mould  Thou  my  stammering  accents  and  un 
couth, 

With  awful  music  raise  and  make  me  strong; 
A  living  martyr  of  Thy  vocal  truth, 

A  resonant  column  in  the  House  of  Song/" 


PREMONITION 

(This  is  my  singing  season,  and  the  dearth 
Of  music  ended;  I  am  pregnant  thus 
With  sound  and  colour,  and  melodious 

Mine  unborn  poems  clamour  after  birth. 

Perchance,  arising  from  the  tuneless  earth 
To  bring  sweet  gifts  of  cadence  unto  ust 
Some  vocal  brother  to  Theocritus 

Inspires  my  lips  with  his  diviner  worth. 

Or  yet,  some  ghostly  elder  singer's  breath 
Is  floating  to  me,  and  strange  voices  ring 

On  my  soul's  ear  with  sound  that  quickeneth: 
"Build  now  or  never,"  say  they,  and  they 
bring 

The  premonition  of  an  early  death 

That  bids  me  hasten  with  my  harvesting. 


NINEVEH 


PRELUDE 


THE  EMPIRE  CITY 

HUGE  steel-ribbed  monsters  rise  into  the  air 
Her  Babylonian  towers,  while  on  high 
Like  gilt-scaled  serpents  glide  the  swift  trains 

by, 

Or,  underfoot,  creep  to  their  secret  lair. 

A  thousand  lights  are  jewels  in  her  hair, 
The  sea  her  girdle,  and  her  crown  the  sky, 
Her  life-blood  throbs,  the  fevered  pulses  fly, 

Immense,  defiant,  breathless  she  stands  there 

And  ever  listens  in  the  ceaseless  din, 

Waiting  for  him,  her  lover  who  shall  come, 
Whose  singing  lips  shall  boldly  claim  their 

own 

And  render  sonant  what  in  her  was  dumb : 
The  splendour  and  the  madness  and  the  sin, 
Her  dreams  in  iron  and  her  thoughts  of 
stone. 


NINEVEH 

O  NINEVEH,  thy  realm  is  set 
Upon  a  base  of  rock  and  steel 

From  where  the  under-rivers  fret 
High  up  to  where  the  planets  reel. 

Clad  in  a  blazing  coat  of  mail, 

Above  the  gables  of  the  town 
Huge  dragons  with  a  monstrous  trail 

Have  pillared  pathways  up  and  down. 

And  in  the  bowels  of  the  deep 

Where  no  man  sees  the  gladdening  sun, 
All  night  without  the  balm  of  sleep 

The  human  tide  rolls  on  and  on. 


1 6  NINEFEH 


The  Hudson's  mighty  waters  lave 
In  stern  caress  thy  granite  shore, 

And  to  thy  port  the  salt  sea  wave 
Brings  oil  and  wine  and  precious  ore. 

Yet  if  the  ocean  in  its  might 

Should  rise  confounding  stream  and  bay, 
The  stain  of  one  delirious  night 

Not  all  the  tides  can  wash  away. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  17 

Thick  pours  the  smoke  of  thousand  fires, 
Life  throbs  and  beats  relentlessly — 

But  lo,  above  the  stately  spires 
Two  lemans :  Death  and  Leprosy. 

What  fruit  shall  spring  from  such  embrace? 

Ah,  even  thou  wouldst  quake  to  hear  I 
He  bends  to  kiss  her  loathsome  face, 

She  laughs — and  whispers  in  his  ear. 

Sit  not  too  proudly  on  thy  throne, 
Think  on  thy  sisters,  them  that  fell; 

Not  all  the  hosts  of  Babylon 

Could  save  her  from  the  jaws  of  hell. 


II 


Through  the  long  alleys  of  the  park 
On  noiseless  wheels  and  delicate  springs, 

Glide  painted  women  fair  and  dark, 

Bedecked  with  silks  and  jewelled  things. 

In  peacock  splendour  goes  the  rout 

With  shrill,  loud  laughter  of  the  mad — 

Red  lips  to  suck  thy  life-blood  out, 
And  eyes  too  weary  to  be  sad! 

Their  feet  go  down  to  shameful  death, 
They  flaunt  the  livery  of  their  wrong, 

Their  beauty  is  of  Ashtoreth, 

Her  strength  it  is  that  makes  them  strong. 


21 


22  NINEFEH 


Behold  thy  virgin  daughters,  how 
They  know  the  smile  a  wanton  wears ; 

And  oh !  on  many  a  boyish  brow 

The  blood-red  brand  of  murder  flares. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  23 

See,  through  the  crowded  streets  they  fly, 
Like  doves  before  the  gathering  storm. 

They  cannot  rest,  for  ceaselessly 

In  every  heart  there  dwells  a  worm. 

They  sing  in  mimic  joy,  and  crown 
Their  temples  to  the  flutes  of  sin; 

But  no  sweet  noise  shall  ever  drown 
The  whisper  of  the  worm  within. 


24  NINEVEH 

They  revel  in  the  gilded  line 

Of  lamplit  halls  to  charm  the  night, 
But  think  you  that  the  crimson  wine 

Can  veil  the  horror  from  their  sight? 

Ah,  no — their  staring  eyes  are  led 
To  where  it  lurks  with  hideous  leer: 

Therefore  the  women  flush  so  red, 
And  all  the  men  are  white  with  fear. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  25 

As  in  a  mansion  vowed  to  lust, 

Where  wantons  with  their  guests  make  free, 
'Tis  thus  thou  humblest  in  the  dust 

Thy  queenly  body,  Nineveh! 

Thy  course  is  downward;  'tis  the  road 
To  sins  that  even  where  disgrace 

And  shameful  pleasure  walk  abroad 
Dare  not  unmask  their  shrouded  face ! 

Surely  at  last  shall  come  the  day 
When  these  that  dance  so  merrily 

Shall  watch  with  terrible  faces  gray 
Thy  doom  draw  near,  O  Nineveh ! 


Ill 


I,  too,  the  fatal  harvest  gained 

Of  them  that  sow  with  seed  of  fire 

In  passion's  garden — I  have  drained 
The  goblet  of  thy  sick  desire. 

I  from  thy  love  had  bitter  bliss, 
And  ever  in  my  memory  stir 

The  after-savours  of  thy  kiss — 
The  taste  of  aloes  and  of  myrrh. 

And  yet  I  love  thee,  love  unblessed 
The  poison  of  thy  wanton's  art; 

Though  thou  be  sister  to  the  Pest 
In  thy  great  hands  I  lay  my  heart  I 

And  when  thy  body  Titan-strong 
Writhes  on  its  giant  couch  of  sin, 

Yea,  though  upon  the  trembling  throng 
The  very  vault  of  Heaven  fall  in ; 

And  though  the  palace  of  thy  feasts 
Sink  crumbling  in  a  fiery  sea — 

I,  like  the  last  of  Baal's  priests, 
Will  share  thy  doom,  O  Nineveh. 


29 


THE  BOOK  OF  IDOLS 


TO 


THE  flowers  I  plucked,  with  youthful  freedom 
straying 

Through  fields  with  dreamy  poppies  sown, 
I  bring,  a  priest  sad  scornful  homage  paying 

Before  an  idol-throne! 

If  careless  you  should  please  to  turn  the  pages 
In  which  my  soul  its  growth  can  trace, 

'Twill  bring,  the  memory  of  those  early  stages, 
A  smile  across  your  face. 

And  if  some  day  the  shadows  come  to  linger, 
And  care  press  down  your  diadem, 

Bethink  you  sometimes  of  the  boyish  singer 
That  kissed  your  mantle's  hem. 

You   took  my   all  when  youth  was   free    for 
roving, 

Youth  that  so  short  a  space  endures: 
Then  take  these  gifts  of  hating  and  of  loving, 

These  songs — for  they  are  yours ! 


33 


34  NINEFEH 

THE  DUMB  IDOL 

". . . .  Upon  a  golden  throne  sate  a  gleam 
ing  idol.  And  it  had  a  soul  .  .  .  But  those 
who  came  thither  knew  it  not.  And  they 
were  not  to  know  it.  For  it  was  the  awful 
punishment  of  this  dumb  idol  that  it  had  a 
soul  and  might  not  reveal  it,  if  it  would  not 
suffer  the  torments  of  the  lost.  Then  both 
Heaven  and  Hell  lamented  its  immeasur 
able  sorrow  which  neither  could  assuage, 
because  it  was  too  deep  for  the  light  and 
too  deep  for  the  darkness." 

— OLD  LEGEND. 


FAR,  far  away,  within  a  lonely  vale 

There  stands  a  temple  old — so  old  and  gray, 

Unwarmed  by  rays  of  sunshine;  only  pale 
Cold  moonbeams  o'er  it  play. 

Yet  nearer  draw  and  see  what  crimson  flood 
Of  light  streams  through  the  windows :  never 
rose 

Could  flush  so  deep  a  red,  but  that  high  Blood 
For  sin  that  ever  flows. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  35 

Around  the  altar,  deep  in  silent  prayer, 
The  faithful  kneel  beside  the  ivory  shrine 

That  still  enfolds,  with  all  the  ancient  care, 
An  image  once  divine. 


A  king  draws  near  in  purple  robes  of  state, 
Bearing  the  sceptre  of  his  sovereignty; 

A  bishop  comes,  and  all  around  him  wait 
His  priests  full  reverently. 

So  as  the  years  go  by,  they  come  to  plead 
Before  the  altar,  happier  to  return, 

But  for  the  poor  dumb  idol  'tis  decreed 
No  light  of  hope  shall  burn. 

It  looks  not  down  upon  the  kneeling  throng; 

But  from  its  staring  stony  eyes  there  go 
Great  waves   of   torturing   anguish,    not   less 
strong 

For  being  silent  woe. 

Ah,  deeper  woe  than  ever  man  has  known, 
Ah,  ceaseless  longing  that  no  sacrifice 

Ever  assuages — there  above  the  throne 
Poor  pleading,  helpless  eyes! 


36  NINEFEH 

At  times  it  seems  the  features  cold  and  set 
Some  gentler  thought  of  passing  hope  would 
tell; 

And  one  could  fancy  that  a  tear  made  wet 
The  cheeks  immovable. 

Yet,  clasped  like  some  strange  book  of  sorcery, 
Those  lips  can  never  speak.  The  curse  must 
come 

That  sterner  godheads  have  pronounced  on  thee, 
Sad  idol  pale  and  dumb ! 

Full  many  a  Christ  has  trod  the  long  steep  way 
Unto  all  souls  God's  mercy  to  impart; 

Surely  the  sad-eyed  Nazarene  shall  lay 
His  hand  upon  thy  heart? 

His  grace  is  shed  abroad  from  rise  of  sun 
Unto  the  furthest  islands  of  the  west: 

Shalt  thou,  when  all  the  healing  work  is  done, 
Thou  only,  not  be  blest? 


Slow  cycles  roll  against  time's  timeless  reef, 
(The  eyes  of  Mary  shine  with  mercy  mild!) 

But  still  the  idol  stands  in  silent  grief, 
Helpless,  unreconciled. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  37 

Thus  shall  it  wait,  speechless  for  evermore, 
Until  at  last  the  fateful  trumpet  call, 

And  all  the  lands  and  all  the  oceans  o'er, 
The  Dusk  of  Idols  fall! 


38  NINEFEH 

KAKODAIMON 

THE  mockery  of  thy  lips  adored, 
Thy  lovely  languid  head 
Enwreathed  with  poppies  red 

Is  my  loadstone : 

Because  thou  art  cruel,  therefore  be  my  Lord, 
Kakodaimon ! 


Thy  glorious  body,  unto  me  made  known, 

Is  like  a  stately  fane  of  alabaster 
Where  in  procession,  to  thy  praise  alone, 
'Mid  torches'  glimmer  and  organ's  pealing  tone, 
Pass    scarlet    Sin,    and    Shame,    and    black 

Disaster, 
Kakodaimon ! 


Then  blaze  the  windows  bright 
With  weird  unearthly  light; 
The  outer  throng  fall  prostrate  at  the  sight, 
But  guess  not  whence  it  is, 
Nor  hear  the  scornful  hiss 

Of  thy  contempt  upon  their  offerings 

blown, 
Kakodaimon  I 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  39 

Ah,  but  I  know,  and  yet  I  have  not  gone — 
Stand  boldly  fronting  this  my  destiny, 
That  my  reward  must  my  damnation  be, 
To  wait  in  silence  for  the  dread  decree 

And  find  no  mercy  at  Jehovah's  throne, 
Kakodaimon ! 

Thine  is  the  blame  if  o'er  my  head  shall  roll 
His    thunderous   wrath:    yet    if    one    spake 

"Disown 

Thy  love,  or  bid  farewell  to  Mary's  Son  I" 
I  should  not  grasp  the  priest's  absolving  stole, 
But,   choosing,   at  thy  worshipped   feet  lie 

prone, 

O  splendid  evil  genius  of  my  soul. 
Kakodaimon  1 


40  NINEFEH 

PRINCE  CARNIVAL 

JINGLING  bells  and  cracking  whip, 
Laughter  and  jest  on  every  lip ! — 
Thou  drew'st  thy  gorgeous  mantle  tight — 
But  lo !  I  marked  and  knew  at  sight. 

In  all  this  dazzling  mirth  the  best, 
A  golden  star  upon  thy  breast, 
The  kingly  sceptre  in  thy  hand, 
Thou  gazest  on  thy  fairyland. 

Yet  as  thou  tak'st  the  golden  wine, 
A  glory  round  thy  head  will  shine; 
Then  all  will  know  along  the  hall 
That  it  is  thou — Prince  Carnival! 

A  shout  goes  up  from  row  to  row, 
The  viols  scrape  and  trumpets  blow. 
The  quick  hand  swings  the  whip  with  art- 
Thy  laughter  masters  every  heart. 

But  as  into  thine  eyes  I  peep, 
There  looks  on  me  a  woe  so  deep— 
Unutterable  and  hidden  all, 
Unhappy  Prince  of  Carnival. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  41 

'Tis  but  a  mask,  this  jesting  part! 
Mankind's  eternal  pain  thou  art ! 
Once  in  the  year,  like  storm  long  pent, 
Forth  bursts  thy  heart-sick  merriment. 

An  inward  fire  feverishly 
Tortures  and  goads  the  blood  in  thee, 
That  on  the  moment  thou  dost  forget 
How  poor,  how  sick  thy  heart  is  yet. 

Therefore  my  heart  it  burns  for  thee, 
Thou  beautiful  prince  of  faery, 
And  oh,  my  love,  my  Prince,  is  great — 
As  boundless  as  impassionate. 

It  is  the  deepest  of  all  things 

How  man  unto  his  sorrow  clings — 

His  breast's  own  pain,  supreme  through  all; 

So  I  love  thee,  Prince  Carnival. 


42  NINEVEH 

THE  SMILE  OF  THE  SPHINX 

AND  one  day  of  late  a  dream  oppressed  me  .  .  . 
And    in    dreams    through   the    long    streets    I 

wandered 
(Through    the    streets    with    many    footsteps 

throbbing ! ) 

And  a  burden  lay  upon  my  heart, 
And  my  weary  eyelids  sadly  quivered, 
And  a  sob  rose  choking  in  my  throat, 
And  the  shadow  of  some  rare  disaster 
Weighed  upon  the  houses  of  the  town, 
And  encircled  by  the  sombre  shadows, 
Sombre  men  with  tortured  faces  walked 
(Pallid  men  with  weary  tortured  faces!) 
Through  the  streets  unending  to  and  fro. 
Midnight  sounded  solemn  from  the  tower, 
And  the  stillness  trembled  as  it  smote  .  .  . 
Further  went  I  on  the  wonted  pathway 
Further  .  .  .  further      .  .  through  the  dark 
ling  night. 

Dark  ^  foreboding    seized    upon    my    heart 
strings  .  .  .* 

Yet  no  swifter  would  I  tread  the  path, 
The  appalling,  vaguely-boded  tidings 
Later,  ah !  a  little  later,  to  discover. 
Nightly  pilgrims  of  the  monster-city 
Stared  behind  me  dimly  wondering. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  43 

And  a  woman,  dark  of  hair  and  feature, 
With  the  gleaming  of  rapacious  teeth, 
And  her  scarlet  feather  ever  nodding, 
Seemed  to  smile  .  .  . 

Yet  I  went  still  onward,  undeterred, 

Ever  onward,  ever,  ever  onward, 

Onward,  onward  through  the  darkling  town. 

And  at  last  I  came  where  stands  thy  dwelling ; 
Ever  slower  grew  my  lagging  footsteps, 
Ever  slower  .  .  . 

Then  my  eyes  beheld  the  sombre  hangings ; 
They  beheld  the  heavy  mourning  symbol 
That  men  hang  upon  their  dreary  doorways 
When  a  dead  man  slumbers  in  the  house  .  .  . 

Slowly  I  ascended  the  steep  stairway, 
Pressed  upon  the  bell  with  trembling  fingers, 
And  the  heart  rose  leaden  in  my  throat. 

Footsteps  .  .  . 

And  a  woman  with  sad  tear-stained  eyes 
(Pallid  woman  with  sad  tear-stained  eyes!) 
Set  thy  door  wide  open  at  my  summons. 
Neither  spoke  a  word:  I  knew  already 
What  for  me  within  the  house  was  waiting. 


44  NINEVEH 

But  she  beckoned  and  I  followed  her. 
Slow  and  silent  then  the  stairs  we  mounted, 
Till  I  stood  before  thy  chamber  door, 
Where  a  breath  of  incense  and  of  roses 
Sweetly,  sadly  floated  out  to  meet  me, 
And  an  icy  shudder  filled  my  veins  .  .  . 


On  the  bed  half  hid  by  fragrant  blossoms, 

As  in  prayer  thine  hands  so  gently  folded, 

Thou  wast  sleeping.    Softly  I  came  nearer 

One  last  kiss  upon  thy  mouth  to  press. 

But  upon  thy  pallid,  silent  features 

Was  a  smile  ...  a  weird  and  ghostly  smile, 

Was  a  pallid,  a  mysterious  smile, 

Past  explaining,  strange  as  thou  wert  strange. 

And  it  seemed  as  though  thou  wouldst  have 

spoken, 

Given  the  hidden  meaning  of  the  riddle 
That  the  riddle  of  thine  own  existence, 
That  the  riddle  of  all  riddles  is — 
When  too  soon  the  icy  hand  of  Death 
Came  and  sealed  for  evermore  thy  lips. 
And  the  hour-hand  of  the  quaint  old  timepiece 
That  had  vexed  me  with  its  solemn  ticking 
When  of  old  within  the  room  I  tarried 
Stood  at  twelve  ...  I  shuddered  .  .  .  and  I 

knew. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  45 

But  the  pallid  woman  now  was  speaking 
(Ah,  so  pale,  and  eyes  with  grief  so  heavy!) 
Seeing  how  I  stood  in  helpless  sorrow: 
"Yes,  at  twelve  it  was  .  .  .  when  failed  the 

light, 

And  throughout  the  house  a  tremour  passed, 
And  a  dark  and  sorrow-bringing  angel 
Stirred  the  heavy  air  with  noiseless  pinions, 
And  I  heard  a  long,  despairing  struggle, 
Then  a  fall  (ah,  dull  and  heavy  fall!)  .  .  . 
Then  a  cry  (ah,  such  a  cry!)  .  .  .  And  then 
Death,  a  shadow,  brooded  on  the  bed." 

And  again  I  looked  upon  thy  face, 

And  again  I  saw  the  same  mysterious 

Pallid  smile  upon  thy  quiet  features, 

And  remembered  how  one  night  of  June 

I  had  seen  it  ...  flickering  ...  on  thy  lips. 

And  anew  I  went  into  the  night 
From  the  house  bedraped  with  signs  of  mourn 
ing, 

And  the  woman  with  the  weary  voice 
(Pallid  woman  with  wan  tearful  eyelids!) 
And  the  clock,  its  hands  at  twelve  arrested, 
And  the  bed  where  Death  kept  solemn  vigil, 
And  the  couch  upon  which  one  lay  dead 
Who  was  dear  upon  this  earth  to  me. 


46  NINEFEH 

Ah,  but  still  forever  I  am  seeking 
For  the  answer  to  the  darksome  riddle, 
That  Death's  hand  with  icy  touch  has  closed, 
And  that  now  eternity  keeps  locked. 

And  wherever  my  sad  footsteps  wander, 
Evermore  I  see  that  pallid  smile, 
See  upon  thy  lips  the  hopeless  riddle 
Past  explaining,  strange  as  thou  wert  strange, 
That  the  riddle  of  all  riddles  is  I 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  47 

WHEN    IDOLS    FALL 

FOUL  night-birds  brood  in  fearsome  throng 

About  the  path  that  I  must  tread : 
Thou  art  not  what  I  thought  thee  long, 

And  oh,  I  would  that  I  were  deadl 
Less  bitter  was  the  gall  they  ran 

To  offer  Christ  upon  the  tree, 
Or  the  salt  tears  He  shed  for  man, 

Deserted  in  Gethsemane. 

For  thou  wast  all  the  god  I  had 

While  months  on  months  were  born  and  died, 
Thy  lips'  sweet  fragrance  made  me  glad 

As  holy  bells  at  eventide. 
Aye,  for  thy  sake,  my  god  on  earth, 

I  joyed  to  suffer  all  I  could, 
And  counted  as  of  lesser  worth 

The  chalice  of  the  Saviour's  blood! 

Entranced  I  knelt  before  thy  shrine 

And  filled  love's  chalice,  I  thy  priest; 
With  flowers  as  crimson  as  the  wine 

I  decked  our  altar  for  the  feast. 
I  gave  thee  more  than  love  may  give, 

First-fruits  of  song,  truth,  honour — all  I 
iToo  much  I  loved  thee :  I  must  live 

To  see  God's  awful  justice  fall. 


48  NINEFEH 

I  bleed  beneath  a  wound  the  years 

That  heal  all  sorrow  shall  not  heal; 
O  barren  waste,  O  fruitless  tears! 

I  gave  thee  mine  eternal  weal. 
My  idol  crumbled  in  the  dust 

(Ah,  that  I  lived  that  day  to  see !) 
There  came  a  sudden  piercing  thrust, 

And  all  my  life  was  dead  in  me ! 


Thou  spak'st  a  single  hideous  word, 

And  that  one  word  became  the  knoll 
Of  all  that  made  life  dear,  and  blurred 

The  lines  of  good  within  my  soul. 
Better  the  plague-spots  ringed  me  round, 

The  hangman  gave  the  fatal  sign, 
Than  that  such  monstrous  word  should  sound 

From  lips  that  once  I  held  divine ! 


A  veil  of  darkness  hid  the  sun, 

Night  fell,  and  stars  from  heaven  were  hurled, 
For  when  this  fearful  thing  was  done, 

It  spelt  the  ruin  of  a  world. 
The  string  whose  music  won  my  bays 

Snapped  with  a  blinding  thrill  of  pain; 
Through  all  the  everlasting  days 

I  shall  not  hear  its  note  again. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  49 

Amidst  the  gloom  I  grope  for  song; 

The  fires  die  out  that  passion  fed: 
Thou  art  not  what  I  thought  thee  long, 

And  oh !  I  would  that  I  were  dead  I 
Yet  worse  than  all  the  pain  of  loss, 

The  smile  that  seals  a  traitor's  will, 
Is  this :  that  knowing  gold  for  dross, 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  thee  still ! 


5.0  NINEPEH 

THE  SPHINX 


WITHIN  a  sultry  desert  land, 

Where  neither  flowers  nor  shadows  are, 
Hid  to  the  breast  in  shifting  sand 

There  stands  an  image  secular. 

Where  Pharaoh's  sceptre  gave  the  laws, 
The  thing  that  held  me  captive  rests, 

Strange  compound  of  a  panther's  claws 
And  of  a  woman's  rounded  breasts. 

Thus  stood  she  when  the  princess  found 

The  infant  in  his  secret  bed; 
Thus,  when  the  young  Bithynian  wound 

The  death-wreath  for  his  golden  head. 

And  monarchs  came  with  her  to  dwell 
On  whom  mad  dreams  had  laid  their  ban, 

From  whose  imperial  shoulders  fell 
The  purple  cloak  of  Hadrian. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  51 

II 

O  strange  beyond  the  strangest  fears 
And  hopes  and  ancient  questionings, 

That  I  who  am  so  young  in  years 
Have  loved  the  oldest  of  all  things  1 


52  NINE?  EH 


III 

Ah,  fount  of  pleasure   salt  with  tears> 
Storehouse  of  cunning,  well  of  guile ! 

Love  of  my  boyhood's  troubled  years, 
Gray  silent  Sphinx  beside  the  Nile  1 

No  hoard  of  silver  I  possessed, 

No  purple  brought  from  Tyrian  mart, 

So,  as  love's  guerdon,  from  my  breast 
With  fevered  hand  I  tore  the  heart. 

Thy  granite  flanks  upon  the  gift 
Closed  with  a  mighty  fluttering, 

Then  first  within  thee  rose  the  swift 
Pulsation  of  a  living  thing. 

And  I  forgot  beneath  thy  spell 

Mine  was  the  life  within  thee  grown, 

And  mine  the  heart  that  leapt  and  fell 
Illusory  in  thy  breast  of  stone. 

Mine  was  the  folly,  mine  the  tears 
That  wept  the  ending  of  my  dream, 

Love  of  my  boyhood's  troubled  years, 
Gray  silent  Sphinx  beside  the  stream ! 


4ND  OTHER  POEMS  53, 


IV 

O  wanderer,  stay  where  life  is  sweet, 
And  jubilant  earth  is  glad  of  May, 

Disturb  not  with  incautious  feet 
The  mystery  of  an  elder  day. 

When  we  have  sighed  to  fold  our  hands 
And  join  the  Pharaohs  in  the  tomb, 

She  still  shall  stare  across  the  sands 
And  hearken  for  the  crack  of  doom ! 


A  BALLAD  OF  SIN 


A  BALLAD  OF  SIN 

IN  dreams  on  a  far-off  shore  I  lay 

(Dreams  that  were  full  of  dread), 
Where  the  purple  clouds  of  a  dying  day 

Shadowed  a  sea  of  red — 
Shadowed  a  sea  as  red  as  the  blood 
Of  one  that  was  slain  in  his  lustihood, 
A  sea  as  red  as  a  lover's  blood 
Struck  down  in  his  amorous  lustihood. 

A  silver  shallop  glides  to  and  fro, 
Over  the  ghostly  crimson  sea, 
(Over  the  ghostly  crimson  sea 

I  watch  its  oars  as  they  come  and  go) ; 

The  wavelets  quiver  and  gleam : 

No  sounds  are  there  that  the  silence  break, 
But  astern  in  the  shallop's  silvery  wake 

Strange  circles  swirl  in  the  stream. 

The  moon  shines  down  on  the  ghostly  night, 
But  pale  and  dim  is  its  faint,  far  light, 
And  now  to  the  island  the  boat  draws  near 

(My  veins  run  cold  with  fear!), 
And  the  shadows  spring  to  the  magic  shore—- 
57 


58  NINEVEH 

For  each  has  known  of  a  bliss  before, 
A  sinful,  sorrowful  bliss  before, 

Of  God  and  of  man  forbidden ; 
And  each  is  wrapped  in  a  robe  of  state, 
These  in  the  moonlight  that  come  so  late 
'(Where  the  quivering,   shivering  moonbeams 
mate) 

To  their  tryst  on  the  island  hidden. 

Go  further  into  the  mystic  shore 

And  see  a  castle  rise, 

A  spirit-castle  rise, 

And  a  flood  of  light  from  the  windows  pour, 
From  all  the  shimmering  windows  pour, 

And  colour  the  moonlit  skies ; 

And  hark  to  the  magic  melodies 

(The  ringing,  singing  melodies) 
That  float  o'er  the  waves  as  red  as  the  blood 
Of  a  lover  slain  in  his  lustihood. 

The  song  goes  deep  to  the  inmost  soul — 
Its  notes  o'er  the  silent  waters  roll 

In  the  heavy  languorous  pleading 
Of  a  wanton  will  to  which  the  grave 
Never  a  moment  of  respite  gave 

And  hearts  that  with  love  are  bleeding. 
(O  ancient  song  of  passionate  dole, 
Whose  notes  o'er  the  silent  waters  roll 

In  heavy  languorous  pleading!) 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  59 

I  am  drawn  by  its  might  (there  is  none  to  save !) 

To  the  midst  of  the  castle  hall; 
And  there,  escaped  from  the  cold,  cold  grave, 

Sin  holds  its  bacchanal 
i (Aye,  there,  escaped  from  the  cold,  cold  grave, 

Lust  holds  its  bacchanal)  — 
And  'neath  the  flickering  candle-light 
The   dance    of   the    shadows   has   reached   its 
height ! 

They  must  renew,  as  the  midnight  chimes, 

The  kisses  that  a  thousand  times, 

A  thousand  times  and  in  far-off  climes, 

Have  died  on  their  lips  enchanted: 
The  flowers  that  gleam  in  their  tossing  hair 
Are  painted  like  flowers  that  otherwhere 
(Thousand  times  and  in  far-off  climes) 

Long  ages  ago  were  planted. 
Heaven  had  no  hand  in  the  pageantry 
Of  the  wondrous  scene  that  was  shown  to  me  1 


With  songs  of  pleasure  they  tread  the  measure, 

That  throng  so  pale  and  wan — 
These  that  of  old  for  sinful  pleasure 

Through  the  gates  of  hell  have  gone, 
Yet  tossed  forever  on  passion's  flood 
Come  sailing  over  the  sea  of  blood. 


60  NINEFEH 

The  queen  of  Egypt  there  I  saw, 
Tiberius  and  Caligula, 

In  silks  and  purples  flaunting; 
Aholibah,  Alaciel, 
And  she  whose  love  came  straight  from  hell 

Were  there,  and  boldly  vaunting 
Her  skill  in  transport  lubricous, 
The  shameless  wife  of  Claudius. 

With  bliss  that  is  bitter,  pain  that  is  sweet 

Shudders  each  ghostly  form, 
And  stirred  alone  by  their  flying  feet 

The  scented  air  grows  warm. 
Madly  the  dancers  revel  and  sway 
In  the  dazzling  colours  that  round  them  play. 

The  fire  that  heaven  has  kindled  dies 

When  the  joys  of  sight  from  the  straining  eyes 

Death's  endless  night  shall  sever; 
All  vainly  mounts  the  aspiring  flame, 
Each  love  that  has  a  noble  aim 

Bears  death  at  its  heart  forever; 
And  only  the  love  that  flaunts  in  red 
Lives  on  when  all  things  else  are  dead. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  61 

For  only  the  love  that  flaunts  in  red 

A  shadow  of  bliss  can  save, 
And  here  in  the  night,  though  life  be  sped, 

Comes  back  from  the  cold,  dark  grave, 
By  sin's  old  tyrannous  longings  led 

Comes  back  from  the  cold,  dark  grave — 
O'er  waves  as  red  as  a  lover's  blood 
Struck  down  in  his  amorous  lustihood  I 

O  evil  love  in  whose  tossing  hair 

The  fires  of  infamous  longings  glow, 

We,  too,  shall  not  win  sleep  from  care — 
Where  heaven's  high  army  hears 
The  anthems  of  its  spheres, 

Nor  where  majestic  Lucifer, 

In  burning  vesture  fronts  his  Foe — 

Condemned  like  them,  sans  hopes  and  fears 
Sans  laughter  or  the  gift  of  tears, 

Monotonously  round  to  go 

In  endless  pleasure's  endless  woe. 


GOLGOTHA 


CONFESSION 

I  KNOW  of  an  odorous  palm-forest 

Filled  with  mysterious  murmurings, 
Where  in  the  glow  of  the  crimson  west 

A  brilliant  song-bird  sobs  and  sings. 
There  is  that  in  the  note  of  the  strange  bright 
bird 

Makes  heavy  the  heart  within  the  breast; 
And  whoso  this  evil  song  has  heard 

Forever  forfeits  his  peace  and  rest. 

But  I  know  too  of  a  wood  in  the  north 

With  a  heavenly  perfume  all  its  own, 
Where  the  nightingales  long  ere  dawn  pour 
forth 

A  ravishing  flood  of  the  purest  tone. 
The  wanderer  breathes  once  more  and  smiles 

As  he  comes  in  its  soothing  shade  to  sit — 
For  the  air  that  blows  through  its  cool  green 
aisles 

Is  no  fierce  blast  from  the  stifling  pit. 

A  ripe  fruit  hangs  in  the  sultry  place, 

For  whose  savour  a  man  counts  all  but  loss, 

Forgetting  even  his  mother's  face 

And  the  bleeding  Head  upon  the  cross. 

In  the  cool  green  moss  of  the  northern  wood 
There  blooms  a  flower  of  marvellous  hue 
65 


66  NINEFEH 

That  speaks  to  the  soul  of  naught  but  good, 
And  tells  of  a  world  where  all  is  new. 

A  witch-woman  dwells  in  the  palm-grove's  heat 

That  is  pale  as  the  ghastly  face  of  Death, 
But  a  red  robe  wraps  her  from  head  to  feet, 

And  through  red,  red  lips  comes  her  fevered 

breath. 
Her  kisses  burn  where  they  close  and  cling 

Like  pain  of  longing  or  fire  of  hell, 
And  he  that  thrills  with  their  adder-sting 

For  them  is  ready  his  soul  to  sell. 

In  the  northern  wood  stands  a  slender  maid 

With  eyes  that  are  blue  as  God's  own  sky — 
Nor  is  she  in  scarlet  robe  arrayed, 

But  wrapped  in  her  virginal  purity. 
"I  have  no  part  in  the  fires  of  sin," 

So  runs  her  song,  "for  my  name  is  Love  I" 
Yet  he  who  looks  in  her  eyes  shall  win 

A  glimpse  of  the  height  of  heaven  above. 

But  I  have  walked  where  the  sorceress  dwells, 

Where  poisoned  blooms  make  the  senses  reel, 
And  I  have  yielded  me  to  her  spells, 

And  lost  forever  my  soul's  true  weal. 
For  me  no  flower  of  good  shall  grow 

In  the  ruined  garden  where  hope  lies  dead — 
And  I  need  but  look  in  your  eyes  to  know 

The  bliss  my  sin  has  forfeited ! 


O  MARY!  Mother  Mary!  have  mercy  on  my 

pain, 
And  quench  the  fire  of  hot  desire  that  flames 

in  every  vein  I 

O  Mary!  Mother  Mary!  commend  me  to  thy 

Son, 
And  tell  Him  that  I  perish  before  my  course  is 

run. 

Poor   helpless   creatures  we  that  walk  where 

night  and  darkness  frown, 
And  so  not  mine  the  fault,  not  mine  the  might 

that  drags  me  down. 

O  Mary!  Mother  Mary!  heed  thou  my  sup 
pliant  plea 

And  say  to  God  the  Father  a  word  of  grace  for 
me. 

Before  Him  lies  the  mighty  book  in  which  with 
iron  pen 

Are  graven  deep,  while  angels  weep,  the  shame 
ful  sins  of  men. 

O  Mary!  Mother  Mary!  think  of  thine  own 
sweet  Child, 


68  NINEVEH 

For  whom  thine  eyes  shed  tears  of  blood,  O 
Virgin  undefiled. 

I  too  am  nailed  unto  the  cross — unto  a  cross  of 

ill; 
The  nails  that  hold  me  are  the  joys  for  which 

I  hunger  still. 

Give  me  no  sop  of  gall,  but  pour  the  wine  thy 

Son  hath  blessed, 
Wash  off  the  stains  of  sin,  and  quench  the  fire 

within  my  breast! 

The  incense  cloud  shall  rise  for  thee,  the  sacred 

tapers  burn, 
If  thou  upon  my  sore  distress  a  favouring  eye 

wilt  turn  I 

But  Mary,  Mother  Mary,  heeds  neither  prayer 
nor  vow, 

Only  my  heart's  wild  beating  breaks  on  the  still 
ness  now. 

Q  Mary !  Mother  Mary,  hear !  the  tides  of  ruin 

swell ; 
My  feet  are  sinking  in   the  sands  about  the 

mouth  of  hell! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  69 

BEFORE  THE  CROSS 

LONG  have  I  struggled  with  my  pain 

And  sought  for  peace  and  rest, 
To  still  the  madness  in  my  brain, 

The  tumult  in  my  breast. 
There  is  no  hope  unless  Thou  heed 

My  abject  misery — 
Pale  God  that  on  the  Cross  dost  bleed 

I  turn  at  last  to  Thee ! 

I  walked  where  poisonous  plants  abound; 

In  search  of  wisdom  high 
I  stood  before  the  Sphinx — and  found 

No  answer  to  my  cry. 
Since  truth  refused  her  to  my  will, 

I  plucked  in  petulant  wrath, 
With  reckless  hand,  the  flowers  of  ill 

That  grew  about  my  path. 

Then  sin  drew  nigh  in  woman's  guise 

And  wrecked  my  hopes  of  peace. 
Her  body's  joy  was  all  my  prize, 

Her  clasp  my  only  ease: 
And  so  to  kiss  her  mouth  I  yearned 

That  seemed  so  soft  and  fresh — 
But  knew  what  thing  she  was  when  burned 

The  brand  upon  my  flesh ! 


70  NINEFEH 

Aye,  'twas  a  leper  I  caressed — 

(Beneath  the  heavy  weight 
Of  guilt,  O  Lord,  I  sink  oppressed ! ) 

And  I  was  reprobate! 
The  good,  the  pure  that  I  had  known, 

They  passed  me  with  a  frown; 
I  dared  not  stand  where  from  the  throne 

The  Face  of  God  looks  down. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  misery 

Thy  goodness  I  entreat; 
Like  some  poor  hunted  beast  I  fly 

To  cast  me  at  Thy  feet. 
Roses  of  blood  I  bring  to  Thee, 

A  heart  that  craves  for  grace — 
O  Jesus  of  Gethsemane, 

Turn  not  from  me  Thy  face! 

And  though  the  Sphinx  her  mystery  weird 

Still  offers  as  of  yore, 
And  poisoned  flowers  their  head  have  reared 

About  the  senses'  door,  . 

No  riddle  has  a  stranger  sound 

Than  this  which  tells  for  sooth 
That  peace  in  humble  faith  is  found, 

In  God  alone  the  truth! 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PASSION 


SPRING 

For  Peter  Pan 

SPRING  came  carolling  through  the  land, 
Roses  and  laughter  on  every  hand; 
But  I  was  gazing  with  steadfast  eye 
Where  Christ  was  nailed  on  high. 

Hawthorn  blossoms  were  white  and  gay, 
Promise  of  fruit  in  the  laden  spray — 
Only  the  tree  of  the  Cross  bare  naught 
Save  the  ruin  that  death  had  wrought ! 

Spring  passed  on,  and  a  breath  of  bloom 
Swept  through  the  casement,  filled  the  room. 

I  cried  in  a  sudden  agony: 

"Lord  Jesus,  set  me  free ! 

"See,  I  am  young,  and  the  blood  is  hot, 
Longing  for  what  I  compass  not — 

Love,  and  sunshine,  and  fond  delight 

In  beauty  warm  and  white. 

"Lord,  Thy  Cross  is  a  heavy  load, 
Thorny  and  steep  the  upward  road- 
Lord,  from  the  woods  astir  I  hear 
Laughter  and  joyous  cheer. 

"Far  be  it  from  me,  Lord,  to  scorn 
The  bitter  anguish  that  Thou  hast  borne : 
But  redder  his  mouth  in  its  youthful  pride 
Than  the  spear-wound  in  Thy  side! 
73 


74  NINEFEH 

"Ah,  see  how  his  hair  like  soft-spun  gold 
Falls  curling  over  his  raiment's  fold, 

And  his  laughing  eyes  look  out  with  glee 

The  great  wide  world  to  see! 

"I  thrill  at  his  music  silvery  sweet, 
And  I  long  to  follow  his  dancing  feet: 

For  lo !  where  they  fall  the  flowers  are  born — 

And  hearts  no  more  forlorn! 

"My  soul  goes  out  to  him  since  the  hour 
He  passed  me  by  in  his  winsome  power, 

And  my  blood  is  stirred  by  his  witchery — 

Prince  Jesus,  set  me  free!" 

Bowed  to  my  prayer  the  wounded  Head, 
Died  in  the  west  the  sunset  red — 

And  a  slow,  slow  drop  of  blood  ran  down 

From  under  the  thorny  crown. 

Strange,  in  the  years  that  have  gone,  the  Cross 
Had  grown  so  dear  to  me  that  its  loss 

Went  to  my  heart  with  a  thrill  of  pain — 

I  had  half  turned  back  again ! 

O  sweet  Lord  Spring,  I  am  free  at  last 
To  follow  wherever  thy  feet  have  passed, 

Over  the  dales  and  over  the  rills 

To  the  gladsome  Grecian  hills ! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  75 


A  SPRING  BLESSING 

SPRING'S  blessing  be  upon  you,  dear ! 

Such  is  the  prayer  most  meet  for  one 
Whose  eyes  look  up  so  starry-clear — 

With  all  his  flowerets  new-begun 
Still  may  he  bless  your  pathway,  dear, 

Who  weaves  his  golden  threads  around 
Your  heart  and  mine  together  bound : 
Because  your  eyes  are  starry-clear — 
Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  dear! 

Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  child, 
When  all  the  earth  with  longing  swells, 
And  lilies  ring  their  silver  bells 
For  joy  that  he  is  nigh, 

And  open  wide,  their  lord  to  greet, 

Adoring  humbly  at  his  feet 

(Ah,   spring  has   come,   and  spring  is 

sweet ! ) 

Their  inmost  pageantry, 
And  all  the  earth  with  love  is  wild — 
Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  child! 


76  NINEVEH 

Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  child, 
And  may  the  song  of  nightingales 
Re-echo  from  the  wooded  dales — 

Like  women's  arms  so  soft  and  mild, 

And  as  deep  crimson  roses  wild, 

(Such  is  the  song  of  the  nightingales, 
And  sad  as  tears  of  one  that  wails 

Where  love's  high  temple  is  defiled)  ; 

Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  child! 

Spring's  blessing  be  upon  your  ways, 

Before  in  life's  distracting  maze 

We  fall  on  hopeless  evil  days! 

True,  summer  comes  more  richly  warm 
And  fraught  with  wilder  passion's  storm 

Of  torturing  blisses; 

But  golden  gleams  spring's  youthful  form, 
More  sweet  his  kisses ; 

Soft  breezes  sing  their  roundelays — 

Spring's  blessing  be  upon  your  ways! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  77 

Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  dear! 
His  hair  is  decked  with  flowery  cheer; 
Upon  his  brow  the  diadem 

Shines  out  by  right  of  youth  immortal; 
His  might  brings  glad  release  to  them 

That  were  condemned  without  the  portal 
Of  hope  to  live  in  sickening  fear; 
Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  dear! 

Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  child! 
And  never  may  the  wine-cup  hold 
One  drop  of  bitter  questioning. 
May  Death  in  spring-time  find  you,  child — 
But  Love  shall  toss  his  locks  of  gold 

And  make  all  life  an  endless  spring, 
And  fate  and  he  be  reconciled: 
Spring's  blessing  be  upon  you,  child! 


78  NINEFEH 

LOVE'S  SILENCE 


ON  crimson  wings  of  passionate  desire 
I  traversed  gardens  of  a  tropic  clime 

To  pluck  love's  strangest  blossoms,  and  my  lyre 
Tuning,  I  caught  each  heart-throb  in  a  rhyme. 

But  now  thy  lashes  burn  me,  and  my  head 
Is  all  confused  with  bitter  love  of  thee; 

Yet  never  have  I  sung  thy  praise,  or  said 
How  very  pleasant  was  thy  love  to  me. 

I  hush  the  songs  that  rise  in  me  by  day, 
That  rise  by  day  and  in  the  depth  of  night, 

Lest — as  a  tiny  bird  that  flies  away 

By  some  child's  laughter  taken  with  affright — 

At  sound  of  lute-strings  stirring  in  the  wind, 
Love,  half  afraid,  unfold  his  pinions  fleet, 

And  only  leave  upon  the  lawn  behind 

The  perfumed  imprint  of  his  sandalled  feet. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  79 

REDEEMED 

SLOW  failed  the  twilight  in  my  room, 
That  none  might  witness  my  dismay, 

But,  wide  awake  amidst  the  gloom, 
I  dreamed  beyond  the  close  of  day. 

There  was  a  tumult  in  my  soul, 
And  yet  I  knew  not  what  I  sought : 

Toward  a  strange  and  hidden  goal 
I  groped  with  fingers  fever-fraught. 

Then  reared  the  ancient  foe  of  good 
His  serpent's  crest :  I  strove  no  more, 

But  rose  and  went  until  I  stood 
Where  sin  set  wide  its  open  door. 

The  air  is  thick  as  incense-wreaths 
That  waver  in  the  candles'  gleam. 

But  what  is  this  that  softly  breathes 
Upon  my  brow  as  in  a  dream  ? 


80  NINEFEH 

A  fairy  vision  of  surprise 

Toward  my  couch  you  seemed  to  glide 
There  was  no  need  to  raise  my  eyes 

To  know  that  you  were  by  my  side. 

And  when  your  slender  fingers  strayed 
In  pity  o'er  my  burning  face, 

The  foul  enchantment  was  afraid 
And  fled  defeated  from  the  place. 

And  when  your  mouth  so  soft  and  red 
Clung  to  me,  soothing  where  it  fell, 

With  one  light  touch  my  pain  was  sped, 
I  was  redeemed  from  depths  of  hell ! 

Then  drooped  above  me — and  dismay 
Beside  the  gate  no  longer  stood — 

JVVhite  blossoms  from  a  laden  spray, 
The  wonder  of  your  womanhood  I 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  81 

LOVE  TRIUMPHANT 

YOUR  body's  treasures  are  mine  to-day, 
Though  bitter  as  gall  be  their  savour  still; 

From  head  to  foot  shall  my  kisses  play, 

Till  naught  is  kept  from  their  sovereign  will  1 

The  voice  of  my  need  supreme  must  guide 
My  passionate  love  to  its  destined  goal; 

My  feverish  fingers  shall  seek  and  glide 
Until  at  the  last  I  hold  the  soul. 


My  hot  strong  hands  will  no  veil  endure 
That  shadows  your  radiant  nakedness; 

Lay  bare  each  beauty,  conceal  no  lure, 
Leave  naught  to  hinder  my  fond  caress ! 

Young  blood  beats  onward,  unchecked  by  shame, 
When  passion's  harvest  is  ripe  to  reap; 

For  who  shall  speak  with  the  raging  flame, 
Or  stay  the  cataract  in  its  leap? 

My  armies  have  stormed  at  your  city's  gate — 
I  have  conquered  you,  hold  you.     Might  is 
right 

With  the  beasts  of  the  wild  that  celebrate 
In  the  jungle  their  primal  marriage  night. 


82  NINEVEH 

You  too  are  moved  by  the  selfsame  power, 
Your  quick  breath  tells  in  its  shuddering  fall: 

There  is  naught  so  strong  as  love  this  hour — 
Call  it  god  or  beast,  it  is  lord  of  all! 


The  god  in  me  and  the  beast  in  me 
And  all  deep  things  come  up  to  light; 

And  I  would  barter  my  soul  to  be 
The  prize  of  love  for  a  single  night. 


One  long,  long  night  of  supreme  desire, 
One  long,  long  night  of  riot  and  rage ; 

For  you  are  the  sea  and  I  the  fire, 

And  old  as  the  world  is  the  war  we  wage. 


The  old,  old  strife  of  woman  and  man 
That  ever  has  been,  and  still  shall  be 

Until  the  day  when  the  vaulted  span 
Shall  sink  a  wreck  in  the  whelming  sea. 


Once  fed,  no  longer  the  wolf-pack  raves: 
But  love  can  never  of  madness  tire, 

And  I  must  drown  in  your  passion's  waves, 
And  you  consume  in  my  hot  desire. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  83 

This  the  law  of  the  flowering  south, 

Of  the  snow-clad  north  where  the  world  is 
white  .  „  . 

You  shall  faint  and  fall  as  I  crush  your  mouth 
Beneath  a  conqueror's  ruthless  might! 

My  life  is  poured  in  the  stream  of  yours, 
But  fire  and  flood  were  not  meant  to  mate : 

We    shall    never    be    one    while    the    world 

endures — 
And  the  meaning  of  love  at  the  last  is  hate ! 

My  soul  is  drunk  with  your  maddening  charms; 

You  have  taken  all — I  have  naught  to  lose. 
About  me  tighten  your  slender  arms 

With  the  very  grip  of  the  hangman's  noose. 

So  let  us  struggle,  both  flame  and  flood, 
Let  love  and  hate  and  sense  have  play 

Till  the  slow  dawn  rises  bathed  in  blood, 
And  you  and  I  are  dead  ere  day ! 


84  NINEfEH 

SUNSET. 

WITH  amber  light  the  sinking  day 

Has  tinged  the  stream  below  the  town, 
Before  the  pageant  fades  away, 

And    night's    black    wings    come    swooping 

down. 
The  wind  has  heaped  the  clouds  from  far 

And  rounded  them  like  maiden's  breasts. 
And  out  beyond  the  harbour  bar 

A  violet  shadow  softly  rests. 

Thus  drifting  down  the  stream,  I  caught 

Far-blown  a  murmurous  refrain, 
((You  know  it  well,  dear!),  and  I  thought 

With  kindness  of  the  past  again. 
So  may  your  memories,  too,  be  fraught 

With  no  regret,  or  hate,  or  pain, 
May  all  the  bitterness  be  naught, 

And  all  the  sweet  of  love  remain. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  85 

THE  SCARLET  FLOWER 

IT  was  in  the  days,  in  the  days  of  the  roses, 
When  under  your  kisses  my  sorrow  was  sped, 

Now  autumn  blossoms  the  field  encloses, 

And  autumn  blossoms  enwreath  our  head — 
And  Love  and  rejoicing  and  May  are  dead, 

And  the  world  is  windy  and  waste  and  wide : 
The  days  of  the  roses  have  long  since  fledf 

And  the  scarlet  flower  of  love  has  died. 

Once  thought  I  your  lips  with  unperishing  kisses 
To  kiss,  that  as  mantles  of  queens  are  red, 

Once  thought  I  no  love  in  the  world  as  this  is, 
O  beautiful  love,  O  dream  that  is  dead — 
But  the  wind's  in  the  tree  tops,  the  leaves  are 
all  shed, 

They  are  borne  down  the  terrible  mountain  side; 
All  sweet  things  flee  as  our  summer  has  fled, 

And  the  scarlet  flower  of  love  has  died. 


86  NINEVEH 

We  two  of  the  honey  of  love  have  eaten, 

Have    drunk    deep    draughts    of    the    gold 

sunshine, 
But  the  key  of  the  grove  we  were  wont  to  meet 

in, 

Where  bloomed  that  flower  as  red  as  wine, 
Is  lost  in  some  mystical  land  divine — 
No  refuge  our  love  has,  no  place  to  abide : 
In  our  grove  dwells  the  autumn,  'mid  wood 
land  and  vine — 
And  the  scarlet  flower  of  love  has  died. 

L' envoi 

Nor  fairy  nor  elf-queen  can  alter  our  fate, 
The  magical  word  is  forever  denied; 

The  past  is  dead,  and  the  charm  too  late, 
And  the  scarlet  flower  of  love  has  died. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  87 

MR.  W.  H. 

"To  Mr.  W.  H.,  the  onlie  begetter  of  these  ensu 
ing  sonnets." 
— Inscription  to  Shakespeare's  SONNETS. 

I  SOMETIMES  dream  and  dreaming  long 
For  thee,  strange  boy  whose  golden  head 
With  blossoms  of  unending  song 
Was  garlanded. 

Sad,  surely,  and  contemptuous 
And  smiling  thou  beheld'st  the  game 
Of  life,  as  once  Antinous 
His  splendid  shame. 

A  softer  light  was  in  thine  eyes 
Than  any  that  the  moonbeam  paints, 
Or  in  some  dead  queen's  hair  that  lies 
Or  blessed  saint's. 

And  yet,  perchance  thou  hadst  no  art, 
Nor  depth,  nor  subtlety, — a  boy 
To  whom  a  poet's  singing  heart 
Was  but  a  toy. 


.88  NINEfEH 


SNOWS  in  thy  hair  and  wrinkles  on  thy  brow, 
The  years  have  strewn  the  ashes  on  thy  face ; 
Of   all   things   wretched,   wanting   most    in 
grace, 

Of  all  things  sad,  the  saddest  thing  art  thou. 

Now  has  thy  boyish  smile  become  a  leer, 
Thy  lips  are  swollen  and  thy  vision  blinks, 
And  in   thy  heart,   more   ancient  than   the 
Sphinx, 

Abide  alone  the  memory  and  the  tear. 

O  lovely  lad  reborn  in  many  a  land, 

Of  Shakespeare  loved  and  Michelangelo! 
Not  thine  this  age's  crown  of  sorrow,  and 
Thou  shouldst  have  died  these  many  years 
ago, 

Not  grown  into  a  spectre  of  the  past, 
To  be  a  thing  of  horror  at  the  last. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  89 

TO  SLEEP 

O  GENTLE  sleep,  turn  not  thine  eyes  away, 
But  place  thy  finger  on  my  brow  and  take 
All  burthens  from  me  and  all  dreams  that 
ache  ; 

Upon  mine  eyes  a  cooling  balsam  lay, 

Seeing  I  am  aweary  of  the  day. 

But  now  thy  lips  are  ashen  and  they  quake — 
What    spectral    vision    seest    thou    that    can 
shake 

Thy  sweet  composure  and  thy  heart  dismay? 

Perhaps  the  eyes  of  wicked  murder  gleam 
Upon  my  bedside,  or  some  monstrous  dream 
Would  bring  such  fearsome  guilt  upon  the 

head 

Of  my  unvigilant  soul  as  might  arouse 
The  Borgian  snake  from  her  envenomed  bed, 
And  startle  Nero  in  his  Golden  House  I 


9o  NINEFEH 


PRAYER  OF  SOULS  IN  NEED 

LORD  of  good  pilots,  kindly  Father,  hear  us 
And  teach  our  feet  to  walk  Thy  ways  of  pain ; 

Lo,  once  again  the  awful  head  of  Eros 
Rises  from  seas  of  passion,  and  again 


The  hand  to  which  love's  unblessed  power  is 

given 

Raising,  he  hurls  a  life  against  the  shoal, 
And    smiling    marks    adrift    'twixt    Hell    and 

Heaven 
The  shipwreck  of  a  soul ! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  91 


RESURRECTION 

AWAY,  away,  ghost  of  my  dead  desire, 
Stir  not  again  the  ashes  in  my  breast, 

Of  all  my  loves  I  had  made  one  great  fire, 
And  burned  thine  image  even  as  the  rest! 

Now  from  his  grave  Love  casts  the  covering, 
And  once  again  there  rises  through  the  night, 

Like  sudden  water  from  a  perished  spring^ 
The  murdered  music  of  my  slain  delight! 


92  NINEfEH 

THE  BALLAD  OF  NUN  AND  KNIGHT 

She  speaks: 

I  DREAMED  a  dream  of  how  the  red  sun  fell, 
And  on  the  plain  beyond  the  city  spread 
A  joyous  crowd,  by  Love  and  Laughter  led; 

When  sudden  came,  but  faintly  audible, 

A  leper's  voice,  and  then  the  warning  bell : 
Then  passion  paled — seized  with  a  speechless 

dread, 
They  tarried  not  to  spit  at  him,  but  fled, 

As  if  that  beggar  were  a  thing  from  hell. 

And  so  if  once  our  love  were  known,  O  sweet! 
The  veriest  harlot,  roaming  through  the  street, 
Would  rather  make  the  gutter  her  abode, 

And  share  the  leper's  bed  without  a  sigh, 
Than  touch  our  hand,  but  praying  thank  her 
God 
That  she  is  not  even  as  thou  and  I. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  93 

He  speaks: 

Full  well  I  know  that  with  its  craggy  rim 
The  cup  of  wrath  awaits  us  and  the  Doom, 
O  Bride  of  Christ,  thou  for  the  love  of  whom 

To  all  hell's  torches  these  mine  eyes  were  dim: 

Is  He  not  Lord  of  all  the  Seraphim? 

His  all  the  gardens  and  all  fruit  the  womb 
Of  earth  shall  bear? — I  took  one  little  bloom. 

Faithful  to  me,  thou  brokest  faith  with  Him. 

Yet  though  all  saints  turn  from  us,  and  hell's  gin 
Close  fast  upon  us,  and  the  red  flames  dwell 

On  your  gold  hair,  and  where  your  mouth  has 

been, 
Lovers  shall  know  and  sing  of  us,  and  tell 

How  that  our  love  was  greater  than  our  sin, 
And  tears  of  pity  reach  the  heart  of  hell. 


94  NINEVEH 

LOVE    IN    DREAMLAND 

WHITE  cloud-wonders  waver  and  wander, 
White  mists  rising  and  falling  yonder 
Are  like  chill  fingers  laid  upon  my  heart; 

Ever  the  nightingale's  plaint  grows  fonder- 
Can  it  be  true  that  you  and  I  must  part? 

Red,  red  roses  hang  in  a  cluster, 
Red  lips  glow  in  the  wine-cup's  lustre; 

Stay  me,  before  I  go,  with  wine  and  bread ! 
Round  me  an  army  of  shadows  muster 

And  weave  a  veil  of  darkness  for  my  head. 

Will  o'  the  wisp  before  me  flying, 
Pale  sad  faces  like  faint  flames  dying — 

I  walk  alone  beside  a  spectral  mere ; 
Ghostly  voices  about  me  crying 

Fill  every  crevice  of  my  soul  with  fear! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  95 

Lights  of  error  and  mists  of  terror, 

On  I  go  by  the  paths  of  error; 
Far  bells  ring  out  in  solemn  warning  tone. 

I  look  in  the  moonlight's  magic  mirror, 
And  doubt  the  world's  existence  and  my  own. 

Voice  of  the  sea  in  its  anguished  groaning, 
Old  woods  that  never  can  cease  from  moan 
ing, 

The  song  that  rings  and  sings  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
False  enchantments  are  all  intoning — 

I  am  a  dream  and  you  its  shadow  pale. 

White  cloud-wonders  are  soaring  and  sweep 
ing- 
Far  away  you  are  waiting,  sleeping. 

No  passing  madness  now  my  vision  mars: 
Our  love  is  safe  in  the  fairies'  keeping, 

Our  kingdom  set  in  worlds  beyond  the  stars  I 


96  NINEFEH 

FRIENDSHIP 

Lo,  in  my  hour  of  need  I  called  on  thee, 

Asking  thy  friendship's  none  too  heavy  toll ; 

Comrades  were  we  when   I  was   glad  and 

whole, 

And  yet  thou  cam'st  not,  and  at  last  I  see 
Twain  are  the  ways  of  friendship,  and  there  be 

One  that  laughs  with  us  o'er  the  fragrant 
bowl, 

And  one  that  wanders  with  the  troubled  soul 
In  the  great  silence  of  Gethsemane. 

I  can  forgive,  and  while  glad  days  abound 
Thou  shalt  be  with  me;  but  when  Autumn 

flings 

The  rose-leaf  and  the  wine-cup  to  the  ground, 
Then  would  I  call  upon  the  heart  that 

hears 

With    intimate   love   the    depth    of   human 
things, 

The  eye  that  knows  the  sanctity  of  tears. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  97 

WASTED  SONGS 

FOR  your  dear  sake  I  worked  my  own  soul 

wrong, 

Yea,  gave  you  all  my  splendid  roses,  wet 
With  dew  of  my  heart's  blood,  O  sweet,  and 

set, 
Upon  your  brow  a  diadem  of  song. 

These  boons  you  blandly  took — as  though  they 

were 

A  thing  as  fleeting  as  the  thin  sea-foam, 
Or  any  gift  of  fruit  or  honey-comb — 
With   the   light  smile   of  those  who   do   not 
care  . 


98  NINEVEH 


LORD  EROS 

WHAT  man  is  strong  to  bind  and  hold 
The  eagle  in  his  proud  estate, 

Or  from  Love's  treacherous  fairy-gold 
To  weave  his  woof  of  fate? 

Lord  Eros  is  no  gentle  god, 
Nor  human  folly  smiles  upon, 

His  are  the  scourges  and  the  rod 
Without  oblivion. 

We  deemed  him  but  a  winsome  boy, 
Until  he  clutched  us  by  the  throat; 

We  dallied  with  him,  and  the  toy 
Became  a  sword  that  smote. 

The  Book  of  Love  is  closed  and  sealed 
With  iron  signet,  and  the  night 

Has  smothered  with  her  agate  shield 
The  torches  of  delight. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  99 

AT  CROSS-ROADS 

Prater,  ave  atque  vale. — Catullus. 

ONE  singing  road  we  travelled  both  together, 

All  day  long  side  by  side; 
Now  that  the  night  is  falling  on  the  heather, 

Our  ways  divide. 

If  thou  choose   one  path,   I   shall  choose  the 
other — 

The  whither,  who  can  tell  ? 
But  ere  we  part  I  call  to  thee :  My  brother, 

Hail  and  farewell ! 


ioo  N1NEFEH 


AUTUMN 

YOUTH'S  first  flush  has  left  you ;  yet  'tis  sweet  to 
rest 

Close  against  your  beating  heart — never  maid 
en's  breast 

Made  a  softer  pillow  for  my  aching  brow, 

Never  swifter  coursed  the  blood  through  my 
veins  than  now  I 

Like  an  elder  sister's,  calm  and  mild  your  gaze, 
Finding  gentle  pardon  for  a  boy's   impetuous 

ways. 
"Child !"  you  call  me,  chide  my  freedom  with  a 

smile 
Yet  I  hear  your  heart-beats,  know  you  love  me 

all  the  while! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  101 

Fate  has  used  me  kindly,  granted  to  my  prayer 
Deeper  in  life's  eyes  to  look  than  boyhood  else 

may  dare — 

Unafraid  to  face  its  current  sweeping  strong: 
Gods  and  women  with  their  love  reward  the 

poet's  song. 

Calm  autumnal  beauty,  still  I  wish  you  well, 
Still  I  pray  no  breath  of  harm  may  touch  you 

with  its  spell. 
'Twas  in  you  that  first  I  knew  how  morn  and 

eve  could  meet, 
Death's  majestic  sadness,  life's  transport  wildly 

sweet  I 


102  NINEFEH 

LOVE  CRUEL 

RIGHT  true  it  is  that  once  love's  bacchanal 
Had  spent  itself,  and  the  devouring  sea 
Of  passion  slept,  that  unrelentingly 

I  heaped  upon  you  bitterness,  and  all 

That  sears  the  heart  and  kills  it,  yea  the  gall 
Poured  down  your  throat,  until  you  looked  at 

me 
With  sad  wan  smile  that  was  a  silent  plea, 

Craving  deliverance  from  the  cruel  thrall. 

Right  true  it  is  I  harass  you  with  fears, 

With     sudden     mood,     indifference,     sharp 

surprise : 

I  love  you  best,  O  sweetest,  when  the  tears 
Moisten  the  perfect  crystal  of  your  eyes, 
And   from  their   depths,    as   from    mysterious 

meres, 
The  blinding  mists  of  utter  anguish  rise. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  103 

SILENTIUM  POET^E 

HERE  in  the  dusk  your  lips  against  my  face 
Cling  close   and  sigh — you   tremble   in   my 

arms, 
Make    glad    my    heart    with    indescribable 

charms, 

And  all  my  manhood  hungers  for  your  grace. 
Yet  I  recall  how  friendship's  light  embrace 
Awoke  in  me  the  soul  divine  that  sings; 
The   lyre   that    when    Apollo    touched    the 

strings 
Found  voice,  but  faintly  Venus'  hand  obeys. 

What  time  I  trod  the  path  Catullus  went, 
Where  Shakespeare  paced,  before  but  still  in 

view, 

My  every  heart-beat  was  a  burst  of  song : 
But  now  a  woman's  tresses  redolent 
Entwine  about  my  fingers,  and  a  new 

Strange  dumbness  does  my  sacred  calling 
wrong  1 


104  NINEfEH 

THE  LAST  CHORD 

WEARILY  I  leaned  my  head 

Against  your  shoulder;  not  a  word 
Was  heard 

Or  said. 

As  fragile  fingers  clutching  anxiously 

Call  forth  no  answer  from  the  silent  urn, 

So  from  the  valley  of  deep  mystery 
No  dead  love  shall  return. 

We  were  right  glad  at  last  to  part, 
And  very  wise — 

But,  when  with  sudden  start 

You  felt  in  me  the  tears  of  pity  rise, 
A  gleam  of  hate  came  to  your  eyes, 

And  there  was  murder  in  your  heart! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  105 

A  LEAVE-TAKING 

THE  heavy  gang-chains  clatter,  and  the  boat 
Groans  grievously  like  to  some  stricken  knight, 

A  sudden  yearning  rises  in  my  throat, 

And  unshed  tears  half  veil  you  from  my  sight. 

Your  love  was  like  an  incense-bearing  vase 
That  I  have  shattered,  playing  carelessly, 

Seeing  that  dearer  than  my  Lady's  grace 
The  lay  of  sainted  poets  was  to  me. 

As  we  have  loved,  so  let  us  part  from  love, 
And  I  shall  walk  into  the  outer  night 

Singing,  at  heart  the  sweet  remembrance  of 
Those  violet-scented  hours  of  delight. 


io6  NINEVEH 

4 

SOUTHERN  SUMMER 

UNRESTFUL  rest  and  aching  drowsiness, 
Never  a  leaf  to  stir  in  tree  or  grass, 
The  sands  of  time  pass  slowlier  through  the 
glass, 

And  in  its  brilliant,  many-colored  dress 

The  valley  lies,  all  dumb  and  motionless, 
As  if  the  angel  of  the  Lord  did  pass 
Leaving  behind  no  trace  of  life.  Alas, 

This  is  a  summer  of  great  weariness! 

For  I  must  wither  in  this  tropic  fire, 

These  sickly  fruits  and  blossoms  I  must  dread, 
And  on  my  heart  has  seized  a  great  desire 

For  the  swift  winds  that  lash  my  Northern 

home, 
Where  brave  men  are  of  fair-haired  women 

bred,  • 

Where  heroes  love  and  where  the  Vikings 
roam. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  107 

LOVE'S  QUEST 

I  HAVE  sought  Love,  and  sought  him  every 
where  ; 
Once  in  a  wood  I  saw  his  gleaming  hair 

Flash  from  afar,  but  drawing  nearer  found 
A  startled  satyr  leaping  from  his  lair. 


IN  THE  AGORA 


TO  A  DEFEATED  CANDIDATE 

SURELY  we  stumble  toward  an  evil  day, 
For  us  of  late  is  freedom's  path  too  steep, 
Her  words  perverted  in  our  mouths ;  we  keep 

Our  bondage  willing,  aye,  endure  the  sway 

Of  trickster's  hands  and  redder  hands  that  slay: 
Yet  this  no  season  to  lament  or  weep, 
But  to  arise  and  with  tempestuous  sweep 

Hurl  the  false  idols  from  their  seat  of  clay. 

Thou  whom  the  people's  voice  acclaims  their 

own, 

Thou  their  defender,  shalt  approach  the  throne 
Of  the  blind  goddess  with  the  awful  rod, 

And  she  will  know  thee  victor  without  flaw, 
Or  else  set  Guile  above  the  shrine  of  God, 
And  break  in  twain  the  tablets  of  the  Law. 


in 


ii2  NINEVEH 

HEINE  IN  NEW  YORK 

(Professor  Herter's  Heine  Fountain,  received 
by  the  City  of  New  York,  after  it  had  been  re 
fused  by  well-nigh  every  important  German  com 
munity,  has  twice  been  injured;  once  by  malice, 
and  once  through  accident.  Finally  it  was  pro 
posed  to  remove  it  from  its  present  site  to  make 
room  for  a  useless  street.) 

NOR  life  nor  death  had  any  peace  for  thee, 
Seeing  thy  mother  cast  thee  forth,  a  prey 
To  wind  and  water,  till  we  bade  thee  stay 

And  rest,  a  pilgrim  weary  of  the  sea. 

But  now  it  seems  that  on  thine  effigy 

Thy  very  host  an  impious  hand  would  lay : 
Go  then  and  wander,  praising  on  thy  way 

The  proud  Republic's  hospitality ! 

Yet  oft  with   us  wreathed  brow   must  suffer 

wrong, 

The  sad  Enchanter  of  the  land  of  Weir 
Is  still  uncrowned,  unreverenced,  and  we  fear 
The  Lords  of  Gold  above  the  Lords  of  Song. 
Were  it  not  strange,  then,  should  we  honour 

more 
The  sweet-mouthed  singer  of  a  foreign  shore? 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  113 

THE  NEW  COLOSSUS  IN  1907 

BEHOLD  the  myriads  at  the  gate 

Who  from  the  Old  World  saw  thy  light, 
Thy  hand  is  strong  to  bless  or  smite 

These  pilgrims,  and  thy  "yea"  is  fate. 

They  as  our  fathers  come  from  far; 

From  shores  where  blaz'es  Dante's  sun, 

And  from  the  bleak  dominion 
Where  fall  the  lashes  of  the  Czar. 


Their  strong  untiring  arms  have  hewn 
A  path  o'er  Alpine  mountain-crest, 
Them  England  nurtured  at  her  breast, 

And  over  them  rose  Erin's  moon. 


Yet  though  their  necks  for  menial  toil 
Are  bent  to  build  our  empire,  they 
Shall  bear  within  no  distant  day 

Strong  sons  and  daughters  of  this  soil. 

But  now  we  need  their  labour;  mute 
Our  engines  lie  in  barren  rest, 
And  in  our  gardens  south  and  west 

Ungarnered  rots  the  mellow  fruit 


ii4  NINEVEH 

And  the  white  cotton.  We  are  shorn 
Of  many  gifts  of  priceless  worth; 
The  yellow  gold  cries  from  the  earth 

And  from  our  fields  the  yellow  corn. 

They  shall  reap  wealth  from  ore  and  coal 
Such  as  no  Eastern  king  beheld, 
And  build  the  iron  roads  that  weld 

Our  nation  in  one  splendid  whole. 

Not  only  bent  on  distant  quest 

In  tropic  skies,  thou  shalt  at  length 
Bethink  thee  of  thy  native  strength, 

Young  Titan  of  the  boundless  West! 

Within  the  compass  God  has  set, 

Between  these  shores  from  main  to  main, 
Thou  hast  new  victories  to  gain, 

And  thou  hast  worlds  to  conquer  yet! 


MALE  AND  FEMALE  CREATED 
HE  THEM 


AIOGYNE 

WE  are  alone — are  quite  alone 

Beneath  the  heavy  canopy, 
Only  the  crimson  light,  far-thrown 

From  the  dim  lamp  gleams  fitfully. 
Now  passion's  rites  have  all  been  paid; 

Lean  back  in  silence,  gently,  thus, 
Until  my  dreaming  eyes  have  strayed 

Above  your  beauty  luminous. 

The  sinuous  glory  of  your  hair, 

The  chiselled  marble  of  your  breast, 
And,  but  for  soft-showered  rose-leaves  bare, 

Each  secret  nook  where  love  may  rest. 
I  gaze  in  silence :  you  have  stilled 

The  hunger  of  my  soul's  disease, 
Your  body  is  with  wonders  filled, 

And  you  creation's  masterpiece. 

O  mystery,  O  miracle, 

Shall  I  extol  your  love  or  rue? 
For  you  are  heaven,  and  you  are  hell, 

And  God  and  beast  are  both  in  you. 
You  stood  beside  the  Cross  of  shame 

When  wavering  manhood  failed  and  fled — 
And  yet  I  know  you  for  the  same 

That  tempted  Satan  to  her  bed ! 
117 


n8  NINEVEH 

So  short  your  memory,  Magdalene? 

Think  you  no  longer  of  the  day 
His  word  went  through  you  like  the  keen 

Sharp  sword  of  judgment,  and  you  lay 
Before  His  feet  with  unbound  hair 

Who  cleansed  you  of  your  leprosy, 
And  made  a  woman's  womb  to  bear 

The  Godhead's  awful  majesty? 


But  ah !  the  fever  in  your  breast 

Craved  not  alone  such  holy  grace; 
fun  was  your  raiment,  and  your  quest 

Was  evil,  and  your  purpose  base, 
jfour  kisses  taught  our  primal  sire 

The  meaning  and  the  might  of  lust, 
O  Lilith,  half  enchantress  dire, 

Half  monster  coiling  in  the  dust. 


Vultures  that  wheel  where  carrion  lies, 

All  vices  followed  in  your  train, 
As  vermin  round  the  God  of  Flies ; 

Of  fruit  proscribed  your  lips  were  fain. 
Strange  fires  of  lust  would  leap  and  war 

Beneath  your  bosom's  ivory. 
The  white  bull  trembled  when  from  far 

He  heard  your  step,  Pasiphae ! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  119 

In  Mitylene's  mountain  glades 

You  breathed  soft  music  on  the  pale 
Breast-blossoms  of  your  Lesbian  maids, 

O  sweet-mouthed  Sappho,  and  the  bale 
Of  barren  passion  held  you  thrall, 

And  in  far  Syria  turned  your  heart 
To  brown-limbed  lads  upon  the  wall 

Imprisoned  by  the  painter's  art. 


And  grisly  tales  the  Nile  could  tell 

Of  boys  that  dreamed  a  maddening  dream, 
And  how  a  lifeless  body  fell 

Each  night  into  the  silent  stream. 
To-day,  amid  the  sullen  sands 

Where  once  was  Isis'  temple  vast, 
The  Sphinx  your  dreadful  image  stands, 

Eternal  symbol  of  your  past! 


When  Rome's  imperial  crown  adorned 

Your  head,  still  sin  was  law  to  you : 
No  meanest  slave's  embrace  you  scorned, 

The  very  streets  your  orgies  knew. 
Practiced  in  every  wanton  wile, 

Your  heart  a  lazar-house  impure, 
You  made  the  name  Faustina  vile — 

The  serpent  was  your  paramour  I 


120  NINEVEH 

With  mystic  dye  your  tresses  stained, 

You  watched  to  death  the  Baptist  pass, 
And  with  your  boon  damnation  gained, 

O  daughter  of  Herodias! 
And  when  the  road  to  Calvary 

For  you  the  Incarnate  Saviour  trod, 
You  grieved  not  that  He  went  to  die 

But  spat  upon  the  face  of  God ! 


Long  years  have  passed,  the  softly-curved 

Sweet  lips  have  kissed  full  many  a  lord ; 
But  Sin,  the  master  you  have  served, 

Grants  endless  youth  for  your  reward. 
Eternal  Woman !   Good  nor  ill 

Has  left  its  stamp  on  charms  like  these : 
Your  body  is  a  wonder  still, 

And  you  creation's  masterpiece  I 


Away  with  visions  that  recall 

Your  nameless  lust,  your  stranger  woes, 
For  whiter  than  the  first  snowfall 

Your  immemorial  beauty  glows. 
Lean  back  in  all  your  loveliness 

Soft-bedded  where  red  roses  bleed: 
A  fool  who  would  your  secret  guess, 

And  who  has  guessed  it — poor  indeed! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  121 

AIANDER 

THE  proud  free  glance,  the  thinker's  mighty 

brow, 

The  curling  locks  and  supple,  slender  limbs, 
The  eye  that  speaks  dominion,  victor's  smile — 
All  these  I  know.    By  them  I  hail  thee  Man, 
Lord  of  the  earth.    Thou  art  the  woman's  slave, 
And  yet  her  master  .  .  . 

I  know  thee  when  about  thy  sunburnt  thighs 
Thou  swing'st  the  tawny  skin  a  tiger  wore 
Till  thy  rude  weapon  dashed  him  to  the  ground. 
I  know  thee  also  when  thy  shoulders  bear 
The  purple  mantle  of  an  emperor, 
Stained  with  the  blood  of  thousand  tiny  lives ; 
The  golden  sandals  clasped  upon  thy  feet; 
Thy  hair  made  rich  with  spikenard,  and  thy 

brow 

Graced  with  the  gifts  that  mutual  east  and  west 
Conspire  to  offer  to  their  sovereign  lord. 

I  know  thee  too  in  lust's  relentless  rage, 
Dragging  the  chosen  woman  to  thy  lair, 
To  frame  upon  her  body  at  thy  will 
Sons  in  thine  image,  strong  of  loin  as  thou: 
And  when,  the  bearer  of  thy  father's  sins, 
Within  the  portals  of  the  House  of  Shame 


122  NINEVEH 

Monstrous  delight  thy  passion  seeks  to  find 
In  futile  quest,  and  Nature  pitiful 
Will  not  transmit  unto  the  future's  womb 
Thy  weakened  generation  .  .  . 

Image  of  God  I  know  thee — God  thyself. 
Walking  the  world  on  India's  sun-parched  plains 
Thy  name  was  Rama ;  thou  in  desert  sands 
Of  Araby  didst  dream  thy  wondrous  dream; 
The  cradles  of  all  races  thou  hast  seen — 
Thou  Zarathustra — thou  the  Son  of  Man  I 
I   know  the  wounds  of  hands   and  feet  and 

side  .  .  . 

Ah,  and  I  know  the  ring  about  thy  neck 
Of  ruddy  curls  1  Say,  Judas,  in  thine  ear 
Make  they  sweet  music  still,  the  silver  coins, 
As  on  the  day  the  temple's  veil  was  rent? 

So,  in  the  far-stretched  background  of  all  time 
I   watch   thy   progress   through   the   sounding 

years — 

Wielding  the  sceptre  here,  and  there  the  lyre, 
The  lord  or  servant  of  thy  master-passion, 
Pure  or  polluted,  fool  or  nobly  wise. 
And  this  it  is  that  justifies  the  whole, 
This  is  thy  greatness :  thou  hast  stumbled  oft, 
And  straying  often  fallen.  Yet  all  the  while, 
Wandering  the  stony  wilderness  of  life, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  123 

Thine  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  steadfast  star 
That  far-off  stands  above  the  Promised  Land. 

Rough  is  the  road,  beset  by  mocking  heavens 
And  false  illusory  hells — the  strong,  the  weak 
Alike  by  dancing  fires  are  led  astray, 
And  poisoned  flowers  bloom  rankly  on  the  path. 
Self  in  the  guise  of  selfishness  approached, 
Frailty  in  garment  of  a  god  benign; 
Pleasure  with  lying  accents  "I  am  sin" 
Proclaimed,  and  vice,  "I  am  bold  action"  cried; 
"I  am  contentment,"  spoke  the  belly  full, 
And  the  applause  of  groundlings,  "I  am  fame." 

And  so  it  came  that  only  here  and  there 
In  all  the  years  a  strong,  unerring  one 
Plucked  boldly  at  the  flowers  of  brief  delight, 
Yet  by  the  dust  of  tumult  unconfused 
Pressed  on  to  reach  the  goal;  the  strong  man's 

goal: 

To  rule  and  to  enjoy,  to  hold  command 
Over  both  things  and  spirits,  to  enjoy 
All  pleasant  sounds  and  all  sweet  gifts,  yet  strive 
Untiring,  ever  upward  to  that  sun 
Which  no  world-master's  blind  despotic  will, 
But    his   own    hand,    with    more    than    Titan 

strength, 
Unto  the  utmost  firmament  has  flung. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY 


A  POET'S  CREED 

"ASSUAGE  the  tempests  in  thy  heart  that  toss, 

For  now  thy  verse  has  a  rebellious  ring; 

Unto  the  people  as  a  gift  to  bring 
Transmute  thy  gold  into  the  common  dross  I" 
Nay,  all  who  sang  and  singing  bare  the  cross, 

Villon  and  Byron  heard  the  selfsame  thing; 

Yet  had  they  heeded,  had  they  ceased  to  sing, 
Were  not  the  earth  the  poorer  for  their  loss? 

Stand  back  in  silence,  as  with  trembling  awe 

Upon  the  masters  of  high  song  I  call : 
What  though  my  heart  be  stained  with  many  a 

flaw, 
What  though  my  blind  steps  stumble,  and  I 

fall: 

There  is  no  god  save  Beauty,  and  no  law 
Save  that  of  Numbers  richly  musical. 


127 


128  NINEFEH 

TO  SWINBURNE. 

ELOQUENT  master,  thy  melodious  rage 
Our  latter  song  may  not  aspire  to  reach  I 
Our  eyes  beheld  the  magic  of  thy  speech 

Conjure  the  love-queens  of  a  perished  age, 

Yea,  clothe  with  life  their  spectral  forms,  and 

wage, 
When  the  sight  stung  thee,  war  with  Heaven 

for  each: 
Only  the  rolling  anthem  of  the  beach 

Could  break  the  spell  and  end  thy  vassalage. 

The  sea,  thy  true  love,  taught  thy  lyric  tongue 
The  mighty  music  of  her  mutiny : 

Thy  voice  as  hers  the  ages  shall  prolong, 

And,   praising  numbers,   men   shall   ask   of 
thee: 

"Is  it  the  sea  that  thunders  in  his  song, 
Or  is  it  his  song  reverberates  in  the  sea  ?" 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  129 

CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

LIKE  a  heart  stabbed  through  with  the  sword 
of  woe, 

The  sun  suffuses  the  sky  with  blood 
And  bathes  the  land  in  a  crimson  glow, 

With  the  colour  of  sin  in  a  rushing  flood. 
I  gaze  on  a  pale,  pale  face  afar 

Agleam  in  the  light  of  the  dying  day, 
But  whiter  and  colder  than  snow-wreaths  are 

That  the  clouds  on  the  Alpine  fir-trees  lay. 

And  a  mouth  as  red  as  the  wine  that  flows 

Where  a  monarch  feasts  with  his  warriors 

brave — 
So  glowing  a  red  had  never  the  rose 

With  its  roots  set  deep  in  a  murderer's  grave, 
Whose  impious  hand  was  raised  to  kill 

The  mother  that  bore  him,  and  then  knew 

how 
He  must  live  his  life  'neath  the  curse  of  ill, 

With  the  brand  of  Cain  on  his  burning  brow. 

And  floating,  fluttering  round  it  fell 
Long  locks  like  a  regal  robe  of  state, 

And  ever  enmeshed  in  their  magic  spell 
Great  captive  Titans  humbly  wait. 


130  NINEVEH 

And  eyes  so  deep  that  they  seem  to  know 
All    depths    yet    reached    since    the    world 
began — 

Aye,  deep  as  the  bottomless  pit  they  go, 
Or  the  wayward,  wandering  heart  of  man. 

I  heard  a  song,  and  I  had  no  choice 

But  to  listen  as  into  my  heart  it  stole  .  .  . 
Strange  loves  that  speak  with  a  siren  voice, 

And  lusts  that  rot  both  body  and  soul. 
Ah,  never  again  since  it  entered  in 

Have  I  known  the  peace  of  a  moment's  rest — 
For  there  is  a  note  in  this  song  of  sin 

That  wakes  an  echo  within  my  breast. 

You  have  travelled  far  into  love's  demesne; 

You  have  pierced  to  the  heart  of  the  riddle  of 

things : 
Your  soul  is  an  altar  on  which  unseen 

Burns  the  mystic  flame  that  has  scorched  my 

wings. 
You  that  sing  of  sin  as  but  she  has  sung 

That  lived  before  passion  was  bound  by  fear, 
In  the  Grecian  land  when  the  lyre  was  young, 

Brother  and  master,  I  hail  you  here! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  131 

THE  POET 

ALBEIT  my  song  is  like  a  driven  blade 
And  I  am  first,  in  all  your  minstrel  wars, 
I  cannot  break  the  elemental  bars : 

When  stood  the  sun  still  while  I  sang,  or  stayed 

His  chariot  in  a  cloud  to  give  me  shade? 
Nor  shall  my  passion  swerve  the  calendars 
Or  melt  the  cold  indifference  of  the  stars 

Before  whose  light  the  Muse's  lamp  must  fade. 

What  though  my  strain  stir  all  hearts  and  sur 
pass 
Great  Dante's  music  drawn  from  blood  and 

tears? 
All  I  have  wrought  and  praying  wrought 

so  well, 

Is  in  the  iron  chorus  of  the  spheres 
No  more  than  beating  of  a  sounding  brass, 
Or  empty  tinkle  of  a  jester's  bell. 


132  NINEVEH 

CONSOLATION 

TO  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 

THE  sun-god  in  his  robe  of  gold 
That  trails  the  argent  clouds  upon, 

One  day  shall  be  a  story  told, 
And  hidden  in  oblivion. 

The  thunder  of  his  chariot 
Seems  but  as  playing  on  a  lute 

To  the  Most  High,  who  careth  not 
If  all  the  starry  mouths  be  mute. 

Yea,  when  the  cosmic  cycles  ring 

No  more  around  the  Central  Throne, 

Shall  not  the  Void  beyond  Him  sing 
His  praise  in  monstrous  monotone? 

The  earth  and  her  constellate  peers 
Are  fleeting  as  an  evening  chime, 

And  the  irrevocable  years 

Roll  down  the  cataract  of  time. 

Yet  are  we  not  all  dust;  the  night, 
By  Love's  own  breath  made  exquisite, 

Shall  for  a  space  in  passion's  might 
Conjoin  us  with  the  Infinite. 

And  though  the  planets  falling  reel 
We  shall  escape  the  primal  curse, 

And  in  immortal  numbers  feel 
The  heart-beat  of  the  Universe. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  133 

HADRIAN 

How  pale,  how  wan,  my  Csesar,  is  thy  smile, 
Grey  with  the  ashes  of  the  heart's  desire. 
Shall  not  thy  slave  with  sweet  pleasaunce 

beguile 
The  hosts  of  care  that  to  thy  hurt  conspire? 

Shall  shimmering  silks  before  thy   throne  be 

spread 
From  the  far  sands  where  patient  camels 

plod? 
Or  black-robed  seers  draw  nigh,  who  long 

have  read 
The  secret  lines  that  cross  the  face  of  God? 

Shall  steaming  blood  thine  anguish  drive  away, 
When  in  the  arena's  madness  and  its  din 
Huge  bright-eyed  tigers  crouch  upon  the 

prey, 
Or  groan  beneath  the  poisoned  javelin? 

Nay,  wilt  thou  scourge  the  arrogant  sea  with 

chains, 
And   make   thy   footstool   of   an   ocean's 

might? 

Lo,  at  thy  nod  the  storm-tossed  ship  regains 
The  friendly  shore,  or  sinks  from  human 
sight. 


134  NINEVEH 

Wilt  thou,  perfumed  and  burning  as  the  fire, 
The    grape's    red    blood    from    jewelled 

chalice  drain? 

Till  drunken  gladness  to  the  gods  aspire, 
Shall  vine-wreathed  Bacchus  revel  with  his 

train  ? 
Far  kingdoms  send  unto  thy  regal  seat 

The  fairest  maids  with  lucent  step   and 

glance, 

That  at  thy  bidding  shall  with  naked  feet 
Swing  in  the  maze  of  bacchanalian  dance ! 

Or,  shall  the  slave-boy  from  the  Lydian  land 
With  sound  of  lute-string  charm  thine  ear, 

and  thou 

The  minstrel  raising,  feel  a  lily  hand 
Soft  as  the  snow  upon  thine  aching  brow? 

But  the  pale  Caesar  sadly  smiled  and  drear, 

"Enough,"     he     said,     and     yet     again: 

"Enough, 
The  purple  fades,  the  laurel  soon  grows 

sere, 
Death  lays  his  finger  on  the  lips  of  love. 

"Thy  words,  O  slave,  ring  hollow  as  the  tomb; 
Like  evil  damps,  thine  incense  too    shall 

pass, 

One  thing  alone  escapes  the  general  doom: 
Love's  haloed  image  in  art's  magic  glass! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  135 

"Wounds  past  all  cure  are  burning  in  my  breast, 
Beauty's  last  kiss  on  lips  that  perish  thus, 
Bring,  that  at  last  my  weary  heart  find 

rest, 
The  marble  statue  of  Antinous. 

"I  care  not  now  for  any  earthly  toy, 

Life's    zenith    lies    behind    me    many    a 

mile  .  .  . 

White  lotus-blossoms  bury  all  my  joy, 
And  all  my  realm  and  all  my  self  the  Nile. 

"His  face  was  heavenly  transport  to  mine  eyes, 
Sweet  was  his  breath,  as  scented  winds  that 

blow 

O'er  fields  of  purple  hyacinths  and  rise 
In  the  glad  May-time  from  the  floral  snow. 

"Approach  in  silence;  holy  is  the  ground 

Where  beauty's  feet  have  trod  the  desolate 

earth. 
Bow  to  the  slave  that  freed  my  soul,  and 

bound 
My  love  with  loving  to  his  greater  worth. 

"Throughout  all  time  shall  sound  his  far  lauda 
tions, 

From  sea  to  land  and  on  from  land  to  sea, 
I,  even  I,  imperial  lord  of  nations, 
Before  this  shrine  in  worship  bend  the  knee. 


136  NINEFEH 

"Antinous,  thy  beauty  is  not  dead — 

Thou  liv'st  in  realms  of  marble  and  of 

song!" 

And  wearily  the  pallid  Caesar's  head 
Sank  on  his  breast.    Then  silence  deep  and 

long. 

But  where  to  Beauty  sacrifice  is  given 

We  too  shall  kneel  to  worship  and  adore, 
Whether  its  star  resplendent  rose  in  heaven 
From  Grecian  hill  or  Galilean  shore. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  137 

ART 

ALL-EMBRACING 
Eternal  art, 

That  of  the  dust  a  handful  takest, 
And  by  thy  touch  a  spirit  makest, 
In  reverent  praising 

Of  thy  perfection  I  would  bear  my  part; 
Thou  alone  art  beauty,  thou  life's  inmost 
heart ! 

Thou  hast  redeemed  me, 
Thou  set  me  free, 

Broken  the  lifeless  matter's  prisoning  shell, 
Let  my  soul  forth 
To  seek  what  beseemed  me 

And  in   the  splendour  of   God's   face  to 
dwell. 

For  Nature  works  with  other  powers, 
Draws  from  predestined  seed  the  flowers, 
And  all  things  from  their  substance  due ; 
But  thou,  the  source  of  endless  light, 
Dost  out  of  nothing  by  thy  might 
Create  a  world  where  all  is  new. 


138  NINEVEH 

While  Nature's  careful  tutelage 
Confines  us  in  a  narrow  cage — 

The  single  life  is  but  a  drop  of  rain 
That  falls  in  summer  showers 

In  ceaseless  round  to  be  absorbed  again 
Into  the  vast  inane, 

An  insignificant  atom,  that  the  gale 
Scatters  its  blast  before, — 
Art  gives  us  mighty  wings  to  soar, 
With  eagle  sweep  the  infinite  heights  to 
scale, 

Storm  at  the  gates 

Of  heaven's  high  fortress  barred, 
Though  time  and  space  and  all  the  fates 
Stood  vainly  on  their  guard. 

Its  gift  is  freedom — space  to  move, 
Our  latent  powers  to  prove, 

Towards  an  imperishable  goal  to  strive, 
Self-conscious  and  alive! 

Looking  backward  through  the  misty  ages 

Over  the  record  of  man's  changeful  way, 
Sudden  I  behold  upon  the  pages 
Of  the  ancient  book  a  gleam  of  day. 
Amid  the  broadening  light 
A  new  creation  springs  to  sight. 
Behold!  the  mists  of  chaos  clear, 
And  art  is  here ! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  139 

Confusion  yields  to  order;  beauty's  curves, 
Fixed  fast  in  marble,  art  preserves. 
Night  no  longer  glooms  upon  the  way, 
Colours  gleam  and  flash  where  dawns  the  day ; 
Already  from  the  lyre  uncouth 
Speak  faltering  accents  of  eternal  truth. 

Upon  the  scene  a  sightless  minstrel  stands 

Who  Ilion  sings: 

From  Hellas  and  the  Latian  lands 
The  resonant  echo  rings. 
Higher  still  and  higher 
Mounts  the  sacred  fire, 

And  welling  from  her  tuneful  throat 
Hear  Sappho's  fond  complaining  note 
Far  o'er  the  Lesbian  waters  float; 
Blessing  with  love  or  blasting  in  his  ire, 
Catullus  grasps  the  lyre! 

Nor  poesy  alone 

Delights  us  with  its  mystic  tone. 

For  lo !  from  out  the  deep  arise 
The  pillared  glories  of  the  Parthenon : 
The  sculptor's  eyes 
Unsealed  behold,  his  hands  devise, 
Types  of  undying  beauty,  and  in  stone 
Hold  the  white  vision  of  the  boy 
Whose  lustrous  beauty  was  an  emperor's 
joy. 


i4o  NINEVEft 

Thus  onward  still 
I  trace  the  proud  creative  will; 
I  see  the  heaven-inspired  throng 
Press  further  in  its  purpose  strong, 

Watch  Raphael  ply  his  brush,  and  know 
The  mind  of  Michelangelo ! 

Flung  out  by  art's  divinest  discontent, 
New  stars  adorn  the  firmament, 
Great  Shakespeare's  glory  burns, 
And  Goethe  in  his  orbit  turns 
Above  the  deep  horizon  line 
Where  Wagner's  rising  light  will 
shine. 


Adown  the  stream  my  fancy  sweeps, 
Where  stately  temples  crown  the  steeps. 
I  sail  through  purple  seas 
With  strange  illumined  argosies; 
Flames  of  kindling  supernal, 
Flowers  of  beauty  eternal 
Burst  on  the  eye; 
And  dimly  in  a  vista  I  descry 

Pale,  ghostlike  souls  of  men  that  stray 
Through  some  mysterious  dream 
land's  avenues 

And   know   not   whether   life   or 
death  to  choose. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  141 

Half  seen  through  veils  of  shifting  smoke 
Delicate  fairy  forms 

And  phantoms  come  in  hovering  swarms; 
Shapes  that  never  were  on  earth 
And  never  shall  have  mortal  birth 
Art's  magic  spells  evoke! 

No  longer  blinded  by  its  majesty 
We  gaze  upon  the  sunrise  in  the  sea — 
No  more  poor  helpless  drops  of  rain, 

Or  atoms  that  the  summer  gales 
Drive  scurrying  on  amain : 

Now  have  we  strength  that  avails 
To  mount  where  the  planets  wheel, 

Trampling  beneath  our  feet 
The  clouds  of  air,  to  feel, 

Free    from    the    bounds   that    ag 
grieved, 
The  world-heart's  rhythmic  beat — 

And  all  this  deliverance 
Art  has  achieved. 


I42  NINEFEH 


THE  MAGIC  CITY 

WHO  knows  where  Babylon's  forgotten  kings 

Now  keep  their  state? 
Laid  to  their  rest  'neath  purple  coverings, 

They  meet  the  common  fate. 

No  traces  that  abide 

Of  all  the  Christs  who  bled  upon  the  Cross 
Ere  Jesus  died, 

And  by  the  Ganges  sought  the  gain  of  loss : 
Behold  their  priestly  mantle's  dye 
Has  faded,  and  their  day  gone  by. 

The  witching  girls  with  eyes  so  crystal-clear 
And  honeyed  tresses  bright, 
Full  many  a  fool's  delight 

And  his  heart's  all; 
These  with  the  snows  of  yester-year 
Not  Villon's  cry  shall  wake  to  light, 
Asleep  beyond  recall. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  143 

The  tables  of  the  law  are  broken; 

The  flocks  are  feeding  on  the  grass  that  grows 
About  each  sculptured  token 

Of  ancient  empire,  and  the  wild  wind  blows, 

Yet,  though  the  spell  of  death  and  ruin  lord 
The  earth,  above  all  mortal  woes 

Deathless,    triumphant   sounds   the   poet's 

word, 

Clothed    with    thought's    flame,     and 
through  the  storm-fraught  night. 
Blazes  like  a  mighty  sword 
Leaping  to  the  fight. 

Through  the  clang  of  battle,  and  the  crash 
Of  worlds  that  to  destruction  fall, 
Song  rings  out  like  silver  trumpets'  call, 
Or,  heard  though  all, 

Harmonious  still,  great  chords  consenting  dash. 

Never  is  melody  silent  on  earth; 

Faint,  far-away,  but  forever  rings  the  sound  of 

its  mirth, 
Not  even  the  sun  is  eternal,  but  immortal,  O 

Homer,  thy  birth ! 
And  still  the  listening  years 

Repeat  her  lyric  name, 
Who  wove  song's  deathless  garland  from  her 

tears 
And  from  her  shame. 


144  NINEFEH 

And  raised  by  music's  might 

— High  walls  in  battlemented  line — 
A  magic  city  dawns  before  my  sight : 

Golden  temples  rear  their  haughty  heads 

on  high 

Domes  like  new  suns  blazing  seem  to  span 
the  sky. 


I  enter  in,  and  straying  stand  at  length 

Amazed  before  a  vast  cathedral's  door. 
Immense  it  rises  there,  in  conscious  strength 
That  many  a  tempest  bore. 

On  the  threshold  swift  I  pause: 
Sound  of  ghostly  footsteps  awes 
My  eager  feet  that  would  an  entrance 

win, 

Bids  me  kneel  and  murmur  low 
Prayers  of  reverence,  as  I  know 
What  holy  thoughts,  what  wisdom  dwell 
therein. 


This  is  the  home  of  high  Teutonic  speech 
Where  beauty's  sacred  fire  forever  glows. 
Upon  the  Edda's  broad  foundation  rose 

The  soaring  columns  vaulted  each  to  each, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  145 

And  Goethe,  Shakespeare,  Ibsen  reach 
Their  spans  across  the  hall: 
And  over  all 

A  dome  that  holds  the  light. 
The  Master-Man,  whose  message  mystical 
Bade  us  be  bold  and  laugh  and  seize 

delight, 

Before  he  vanished  into  endless  night 
At  Zarathustra's  call ! 


Of  song  is  made  the  painted  windows'  sheen, 
The  lustre  of  the  lamps, 

The  tapestries  shot  with  gold : 
On  each  his  own  design  some  singer  stamps, 
The  very  stones  have  voices,  that  pro 
claim 

The  Magic  City  and  uphold 
Her  deathless  fame. 


The  Holy  of  Holies  is  this  place ; 
Some  hanging  that  the  wall  may  grace 

To  weave  with  care, 
Or  with  the  smoking  censer  pace, 

Or  do  least  service  in  that  blessed  throng 
Is  to  claim  kinship  with  God's  saints  and  wear 
The  martyr's  crown  of  song. 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 

I  LAY  beside  you  ...  on  your  lips  the  while 
Hovered,  most  strange  .  .  .  the  mirage  of  a 

smile, 

Such  as  a  minstrel  lover  might  have  seen 
Upon  the  visage  of  some  antique  queen — 
Flickering  like  flame,  half  choked  by  wind  and 

dust, 
Weary  of  all  things  saving  song  and  lust. 

How  many  days  and  years  and  lovers'  lies 
Gave  you  your  knowledge  ?    You  are  very  wise 
And  tired,  yet  insatiate  to  the  last. 
These  things  I  thought,  but  said  not;  and  there 

passed 

Before  my  vision  in  voluptuous  quest, 
The  pageant  of  the  lovers  who  possessed 
Your  soul  and  body  even  as  I  possess, 
Who  marked  your  passion  in  its  nakedness 
And  all  your  love-sins  when  your  love  was  new. 

They  saw  as  I  your  quivering  breast,  and  drew 
Nearer  to  the  consuming  flame  that  burns 
Deep  to  the  marrow  of  my  bone,  and  turns 
My  heart  to  love  even  as  theirs  who  knew 
From  head  to  girdle  each  sweet  curve  of  you, 
Each  little  way  of  loving.    No  caress, 
But  apes  the  part  of  former  loves.    Ah  yes, 
149 


150  NINEVEH 

Even  thus  your  hand  toyed  in  the  locks  of  him 
Who  came  before  me.  Was  he  fair  of  limb 
Or  very  dark?  What  matter,  with  such  lures 
You  snared  the  heart  of  all  your  paramours ! 

To-night  I  feel  the  presence  of  the  others, 

Your  lovers  were  they  and  are  now  my  brothers 

And  I  have  nothing  that  has  not  been  theirs, 

No  single  bloom  the  tree  of  passion  bears 

They  have  not  plucked.     Beloved,  can  it  be? 

Is  there  no  gift  that  you  reserve  for  me — 

No  loving  kindness  or  no  subtle  sin, 

No  secret  shrine  that  none  has  entered  in, 

Whither  no  mocking  memories  pursue 

Love's  wistful  pilgrim  ?    I  am  weary  too, 

With  weariness  of  all  your  lovers,  and  when 

I  follow  in  the  ways  of  other  men, 

I  know  each  spot  of  your  sweet  body  is 

A  cross,  the  tombstone  of  some  perished  kiss. 

My  arms  embrace  you,  and  a  silent  host 

Of  shadows  rises — at  each  side  a  ghost! 

With  all  its  beauty  and  its  faultless  grace 

Your  body,  dearest,  is  a  haunted  place. 

When  I  did  yield  to  passion's  swift  demand, 

One  of  your  lovers  touched  me  with  his  hand. 

And  in  the  pang  of  amorous  delight 

I  hear  strange  voices  calling  through  the  night 


THE  THREE  SPHINXES 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  153 


THE  THREE  SPHINXES 

BEFORE  the  image  older  than  the  world, 

Or  ill  or  good, 

By  Titan  hand  into  the  desert  hurled, 
In  the  Egyptian  sunset  musing  stood — 
Long  having  travelled  by  fantastic  roads 
Where  in  deep  sands  the  tremulous  foot 
step  sinks — 
The  oldest  and  the  youngest  of  the  gods, 

Saying: 

"Upon  my  life  has  fallen  thy  shadow, 
O   Sphinx!" 

Replied  the  Sphinx:  "O  son  of  Aphrodite, 
Shall  wisdom  teach  thee  how  the  soul  is  won, 

Or  the  hot  sands  be  balsam  on  thy  lids? 
Behold  approach  from  Thebes  and  Babylon, 
Huge  birds  grotesque  against  the  falling 

gloom, 

My  far-come  younger  sisters."    And  a  mighty 
Thunder  of  pinions  shook  the  pyramids, 
And  made  the  mummies  mumble  in  their 
tomb. 


154  NINEFEH 

The  three  stern  sisters  of  the  mystery 

Enduring  and  miraculously  wrought 
In  granite  and  in  porphyry, 

Then,    holding   concourse    in    the    desert, 

spake 
With  the  great  sound  of  billows  on  the  sea 

That  rumble  as  they  break: 
"Thou,  Eros,  art  the  eternal  riddle,  we 

Are    but    in    stone    the    semblance    of    thy 
thought." 

Limbed  like  the  panther,  featured  like  a  man, 
The  wisest  of  the  Sphinxes  thus  began, 

That  still  had  waited  where  the  river  steams 
And  winds  the  caravan: 
"In  my  brain's  cavern  seven  cubits  span 
Dwell  visions  splendorous 

Of  the  great  lords  of  song  and  thought 

and  might, 
Who  in  the  large  eyes  of  Antinous 

Have  read  the  Deeper  Light. 
Upon  my  lashes  gleams 

Still  Shakespeare's  rhythmic  tear; 
Here  Plato  musing  dreamed  his  dreams 

Of  spirit-passion;  David  here 
In  the  long  night-watch  sang  of  Jonathan." 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  155 

Then  rose  the  winged  Theban,  figure  dual 

Of  maid  and  lion  strangely  wed; 
"I  am  the  blood  that  tingles,  and  the  jewel 
Of  all  the  world's  desire  adorns  my  head — 
The  lithe-limbed  youths  that  fell  for  Hel 
en's  sake 

Have  died  for  me, 
The  lads  that  wake 
To  ripeness  curse  me  as  they  ache 

Beneath  my  tyranny. 
My  mandates  sweet  and  cruel 

Nor  prayer  nor  penance  shall  revoke: 
I  am  the  flame,  men's  bodies  are  the  fuel, 
Men's  souls  the  smoke." 

The  pinioned  Sphinx  of  Babylon, 

Human  in  naught,  Lord  Eros  thus  addressed: 
"Wherever  men  have  spat  thy  face  upon 
Or  sought  strange  pleasure  in  unholy  quest, 
My  breath  had  made  them  mad. 
I  am  the  dream  that  Nero's  mother  had 

Ere  burned  his  natal  star. 
I  am  the  ghastly  vision  of  de  Sade: 
Astarte  and  Priapus  wage 

War  for  my  beauty  monstrous,  bar 
ren,  bare; 

The  Cretan  knew  me  and  from  far 
My  image  fell  upon  the  crimson  page 
Of  Swinburne  and  of  Baudelaire." 


I5<S  NINEVEH 

The  silence  shivered  as  in  tearless  woe 

When   they   had   done,    the     Foam-begotten 

broke 

Across  his  knee  the  sceptre  and  the  bow : 
"The  empyrean  is  beyond  your  reach, 
Your  substance  earth  of  earth, 
And  even  she  that  called  on  Plato's 

name 
Bears  soilure  of  a  mortal  birth 

The  triple  mirror  are  you  of  my 

shame 
Half-beast  are  two,  one  wholly  beast,  in 

each 

Is  something  bestial,  and  your  wings'  winds 
choke 

Within  my  heart  the  unadulterate 
flame." 

But  the  three  Sphinxes  mighty  murmuring 
Thus  answer  made :  "O  Love, 
Turn  thou  thy  wrath  above, 
Where  round  God's  throne  the  cosmic  sunsets 

fling 
The  light  that  shall  not  fade. 

Beneath  his  feet  the  countless  aeons  roll, 
His  slow  relentless  purpose  knows  the 

goal 

Of  things,  and  joining  flesh  and  spirit  made 
A  beast  the  mansion  of  the  soul." 


AND  OTHER  POEMS  157 

And  lo,  the  spring's  breath  faded  from  Love's 

charm, 

The  sunshine  from  his  hair, 
And  in  his  arm 

The  arrows  turned  to  rods. 

He   heeded   not   the   silent   years   that 

crawl 

Like  uncouth  spiders.    Weary,  cynical, 
Self-conscious,   disenchanted  stood   he  there, 
The  oldest  and  the  saddest  of  the  gods. 


I  f  I 


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